


Piece of Cake—Almost

by LHDD (la_hija_de_Dios)



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: (I just really like that tag. . .), Abracadabra's "bring back the whump" challenge, Cross-posted on FF.net, Gen, Hopefully that helps, Hurt/Comfort, I really wanted an excuse to write whump, No Slash, So like a mission goes terribly wrong, Tags Are Hard, Whump, and Newkirk and Carter both get injured, but like it's whump with a plot, fun times no?, like what even are tags?, no beta; we die like men, oh!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_hija_de_Dios/pseuds/LHDD
Summary: It was just one mission. They both knew what to do. Carter would distract them with his angered officer routine. Newkirk would crack a safe in the meantime. But, when things begin to unravel, what will happen to our heroes?
Relationships: Andrew Carter & Peter Newkirk
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Hogan's Heroes" does not belong to me. I sure do love playing around with these characters though! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! So, I know it's been forever. Uh, lots of things have happened since I've posted on here. (Not the least of which is that the most amazing man in the world has asked me to marry him! \O/ Oh, and I'm now a teacher!) Anyway, pardon my excitement. :3 Please enjoy the first chapter of this story! I was inspired by the "Bring back the whump!" challenge! :D

"What do you think, Newkirk? Hitler and Goering, ready for a night on the town!" Andrew Carter grinned and then wiped all emotion but boredom off his face to match his Gestapo uniform.

Peter Newkirk snacked Carter on the back of the head. "Watch it!" Under his breath he muttered, "Bleeding idiot."

Carter stared at him for a second, his gaze almost searching. Just as Newkirk opened his mouth to snap at the American, Carter hmmed. "What do you say we stop at the Hof-Brau after this? After all, might as well get some use out of these uniforms, right?" His tone was playful but reassuring, almost as though he had realized Newkirk's bad mood stemmed from his worry about the mission.

Newkirk's scowl was unable to hold up underneath the cheery disposition his partner exhibited. It melted, giving way to an amused smirk. "Might as well."

"All right, knock it off you two." Colonel Hogan turned the corner, grinning.

Newkirk shrugged, murmuring, "All I'm saying, Guv, is that he has a point. Why go to all the trouble of sneaking our way out of camp if we're not going to enjoy the benefits of a night on the town?" If possible, his smirk widened.

"Point or not, we have a job to do. Once you're all suited up for the mission and have your fake papers in your pockets, I want you to head out. Do you both remember your names?"

Newkirk saluted. " _Feldwebel_ Hans Kirkenheim at your service."

"And I'm _Oberst_ Otto Carterhof!" Carter grinned, hands on his lapels. All of a sudden, he realized he was supposed to be in character and started. "Oh! I mean—!" With a grimace, he corrected his stance and facial expression.

Hogan nodded. "Much better. You two will go to the headquarters in Dusseldorf. Carter, I want you to distract the guards in charge." Hogan held up a hand to stop Carter from asking the question the younger man so obviously wanted to ask. "You can pretend to need to speak with the man in charge if you want. Something about the conduct of his men in a recent investigation, maybe. You're good at improv, so I'm not worried. While you're doing that, Newkirk will sneak back to the room and crack the safe. Get back here as quickly as you can. This is sensitive information, you know." At their simultaneous nod, the colonel grinned. "This is also a routine mission. It shouldn't take longer than—" He checked his watch— "four hours."

"Begging the colonel's pardon, but what happens if we take a bit longer to get back?" At Colonel Hogan's unimpressed stare, he hurried on to say, "We're not going to stop on the way back. But if we get held up? What happens then?"

Hogan shook his head. "You know we'll keep the tunnel open until you get back. Just do your best and hurry home. Wouldn't want to worry the Kommandant now, would we?" He smirked.

Newkirk winked. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir." He and Carter turned and climbed up the ladder.

"Bye!" Carter called out before they shut the lid to the tunnel.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "You want to talk any louder, mate? We might be able to get ahold of _all_ the ruddy Krauts in the area."

Carter's face contorted into one of mortification. "Oh. Sorry. . ." The next few minutes continued in silence. "Peter? Do . . . do you think the Germans will buy my story? That I need to speak with the man in charge? I mean, it kind of reminds me of a time when I was in the drugstore back in Bullfrog—my ma needed something for her headaches—and this lady came in. She was awfully mean, and no one in the town liked her. She found things to be upset about even when everything was perfect! Like, one time she even got mad at Uncle Luke! Everybody loves Uncle Luke! Well, he's not really my uncle, but the whole town has kind of adopted him as uncle. Anyway, she walked into the store and demanded to speak to the manager. She got really mad at Uncle Luke and told him that he'd done a bad job with her milkshake, that it was too cold. Y'know, I was never able to figure that out. How is a cold milkshake bad? But you know how it is. Miss Karen, the lady who wanted to speak to the manager, wasn't very nice to Uncle Luke, and it just made everyone else mad at her. Actually, I'd have to say tha—"

"Carter, I'd say you've got a right chance at distracting them. Stop your nattering, and let's carry on." Newkirk shook his head.

Carter nodded. "Okay." He trudged along beside his companion.

After a few minutes, Newkirk groused, "Why didn't we take the staff car again?" His legs were aching with all the effort of traipsing about in the snow. He knew his grumbling wouldn't help matters, but it sure felt nice to act like it would.

"It was in the shop, remember? I mean, it was actually in the shop, not just with us pretending it was broken. I think it was something about the axle?" Carter put a hand to his chin in thought. "You know, it's actually kind of ironic that we can't use it for the same reason that we usually tell Klink _he_ can't use it."

Newkirk clenched his fist. "Yeah, hilarious." His dark mood didn't seem to affect Carter's cheeriness any. Newkirk blew on his hands and began rubbing them. "We're barmy, going outside on a night like this. I think I heard it's supposed to snow more tonight. What's with that? We've had perfectly nice weather for a week—Well, nice for here, anyway—and yet we've been given no missions 'til a blooming snowstorm's s'posed to come. What—Does London think we're miracle workers?"

Carter spoke softly, "Peter, do you think they won't believe us because we look like we've been in the snow?" His words held a sort of seriousness and gave the idea that he had been thinking on them for a while.

Newkirk huffed, "Carter, why are you so dead sure we've not got a chance?" Carter was usually so bright and optimistic, so this behaviour seemed out of character for him.

Carter cleared his throat. "I, uh, had a dream last night. It was us on a mission, and it didn't end well for us. We didn't die, but we, um, didn't complete our mission, either. I just have this feeling that something will go wrong." He shrugged. "It might be nothing, but dreams are important to . . . my people. I can't help but worry."

"Andrew. . ." What should he say? Newkirk wasn't superstitious by any means, but Carter's dream did offset him a little. Had the American not been asking so many questions, Newkirk probably would not have realized there was something the matter with him. Truth be told, that irked him a little. How could he not have seen that Carter wasn't quite his normal self? And how did one go about comforting another for a dream that seemed to spell doom for the mission? Newkirk finally decided upon saying, "It'll be all right. . . Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Carter shrugged. "You already looked worried, and . . . Well, I didn't want to give you something else to think about." He stopped walking and stood still. "I mean, the dream didn't say that we'd die, so there's that." He smiled weakly.

"Well, then. I sure am glad that, although the mission'll be a complete and utter flop, at least we won't die," Newkirk commented sarcastically. He knew he had to get Carter's mind off the nightmare. As it was, the Englishman was a pessimist and worrier. It wouldn't do to have Carter, who was perpetually happy (or daft, as Newkirk liked to think of it) down as well. What could he do to distract the lad? "What other dreams have you had recently?"

Carter's face brightened. "I had one about Felix riding on Hassenpfeffer! Felix had a sword and everything!"

Newkirk stifled a laugh at the ridiculous notion. "I can't see Felix riding on anything other than you, let alone that rabbit."

Carter's mock-wounded look reminded Newkirk of a kicked puppy. "I'm sure he could do it if he tried." A smile overtook his face. "Besides, he was off, saving other mice and the occasional guinea pig in distress. You know how it is. He got a big head about it, too." Carter nodded sagely.

Newkirk felt his own grin creeping across his face. To hide it, he tugged on his friend's arm. "Come on. Can't be more than a few more miles."

~\\*/~

Sure enough, the town of Dusseldorf came into view shortly. Newkirk and Carter stopped at a nearby store to freshen up and make sure they looked the part of Gestapo officers. Their clothes were a bit damp from the snow, but there was nothing to be done for that. After straightening their collars, they assumed character and walked into the headquarters proudly.

Newkirk was speaking the moment before they opened the door. " _Mein Herr,_ I'm not sure that—"

"Silence!" Carter barked, "I have told you before that I demand perfection! This was not perfection!" He clenched a fist and slammed it into the wall.

Newkirk, seemingly cowed, nodded. " _Jawohl,_ _Herr Oberst_. It shall be done."

As they walked up to the desk, Carter adopted a smug expression. "Tell me, who is the officer in charge here?"

The _Hauptman_ , a short blond with a moustache, snapped to attention. "Uh, it is _Leutnant_ Schneider, _mein Herr_! Shall I retrieve him?"

" _Ja!_ I must see him immediately! We have things to discuss." Carter glared at the man, a sneer forming on his face. _"Feldwebel!"_

Newkirk immediately straightened and saluted his commanding officer.

"I want you to take a look around the building. Inspect every area of it. _General_ Hoganmueller will not be pleased if it does not meet inspection." Watching Newkirk salute once more, Carter raised a hand to silence the protests. "I have promised him excellence, and that is what he shall receive!"

The _Hauptman_ opened his mouth slowly, wary of Carter's gaze. "Um, sir, may I send someone with him? Perhaps to guide him?"

" _Nein!_ You have not yet gone to get _Leutnant_ Schneider! How can I trust you to get my man through the building safely?" Carter shrieked.

The man's eyes widened. He saluted and left in search of his superior.

Carter whipped around to face Newkirk. " _Feldwebel_ Kirkenheim, go and do as I command!"

Newkirk went off to do Carter's bidding, grateful for the excuse to go pick the safe's lock. _This mission's gotten to my head. . . I can't wait for it to be over,_ he thought to himself. Finding the room with the safe was incredibly easy, thanks to the map Colonel Hogan had requested. As Newkirk approached the room, what Carter said about that nightmare played over and over in his mind. _Blimey, I do hope he was wrong about that!_

He slipped inside and immediately spotted the safe's hiding place. A picture of Hitler, almost identical to the one hanging in Klink's office, was slightly off-kilter. Newkirk grinned, purring, "I do believe we've yet to be acquainted. What say we get to know each other a bit better?" He pulled out his lockpicking tools and got to work.

He had just finished the last tumbler when he heard voice coming from the hallway. Eyes darting around, Newkirk covered the safe with the painting once more and dove into the corner of the room. He prayed that the voice wouldn't enter, that the person belonging to it wouldn't see him. As seconds passed, and the voice continued to get louder, dread began to build in the pit of Newkirk's stomach. The door handle began to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm evil. . . I don't get much time to write anymore (what with teaching and all), but the next chapter should be up soon! In fact, it's partially written! :D
> 
> Edit: Dude. I misspelled “Krauts.” *facepalms* Sorry ‘bout that. I must’ve been really tired (or super eager). . .
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!


	2. Chapter 2

_Bleeding Andrew and that bleeding dream of his! We wouldn't be in this mess if he hadn't gone and had a dream like that!_ Newkirk was trying his very best to conceal his presence and yet not make enough noise to be caught. If the intruder—What a thought! Newkirk laughed inwardly because _he_ was truly the intruder—noticed him, he would be shot. Sure, there might be a chance of escaping. However, with the Englishman cornered as he was, the odds weren't in his favour.

A portly man walked in, dressed in the attire of a _Gefreiter_. He looked around, searching for something. Newkirk held his breath when the man walked over to where he was crouched in the corner. The German bent down as if to pick something up and then straightened his posture. His words struck fear into Newkirk's heart. "Aha! I am very glad I found you!" When the man was fully standing, however, he opened his fist to stare at a small object resting in the palm of his hand. "If the maid found out that _Fraulein_ Elise has been here, she would tell my wife, _und_ we wouldn't want that, would we?" He picked up the earring and held it up to the light. Finally nodding in confirmation, he began to make his way out of the room.

Once he was positive the man was far enough away, Newkirk sighed. He had been certain that the man would catch him, especially after hearing about Carter's dream. While he may not have been a superstitious man, he couldn't deny how much he had been ready to rescind that thought had the German found him.

Unfortunately, the sound of his sigh reverberated through the room. The _Gefreiter,_ who was apparently only almost out of the room, pivoted and froze. Newkirk, realizing he'd been heard, attempted to make his breathing as quiet as possible.

" _Was is . . ._ _Ach!_ Stand up or I shoot!" The German raised his gun and pointed it directly at Newkirk.

 _Think, idiot, think!_ Newkirk stood slowly, watching his opponent's every move.

"But . . . you wear a uniform! What were you doing in this room, _Feldwebel?_ " The gun faltered slightly.

Newkirk grimaced. "I was searching the room for bugs. You know, we have been finding a lot of those lately. Nasty things. Never can know who exactly is listening on the other end!"

The German nodded and then frowned. "I haven't seen you before. How can I know I can trust you?"

Affronted was the only way to describe the look on Newkirk's face. "I am Gestapo! I would never keep anything from you except if it were for the good of the Third Reich. Now, let me continue on with my business."

" _Ja, ja._ I should not interfere. It is true that the Gestapo has its own ways."

Newkirk grinned. " _Ja_ , we do. Run along. You wouldn't want to get all tangled up in Gestapo matters." He forced himself not to sigh when the German turned to leave. He waited a few minutes after the man had left before resuming his opening of the safe.

"Sir, if I may, I would like to ask a question. Why does the Gesta—"

This time, the safe was completely open when Newkirk was startled. He whipped around and paled.

 _"Halt! Hände hoch!"_ the soldier shouted, pulling out his Luger. " _Achtung! Achtung!_ Give yourself up or I'll shoot!"

Newkirk inwardly cursed the _Gefreiter,_ who seemed to get louder with every word. _Likely trying to rally help for himself,_ he realized with a grimace. Newkirk ducked as a shot rang out. He rolled on the ground, narrowly missing another shot. He popped up beside the startled German and elbowed him in the gut. While the man was curled up in pain, Newkirk grabbed the gun and hit him high on the temple with the butt of the weapon. The soldier collapsed to the ground. "You'll have a killer headache when you wake up," Newkirk muttered. With the coast now mostly clear, he looked longingly at the safe. "I'll have to come back for you, love. The other Krauts'll be on their way soon." _You're barmy, mate,_ he thought, _talking to a safe. What would the colonel think if he could hear you now?_ He shook his head.

At the door, he broke into a dead run. A few yards away, he could hear a cry of outrage. The sound spurred him onward. He would not—could not!—let the mission end with their deaths, no matter what Carter's dream said. He comforted himself in the thought that the Germans in the area would likely check the room he'd been hiding in before looking for him. When the Englishman got close enough to Carter, he slowed to a walk.

Carter was arguing with the _Leutnant_ in charge as only he could. "I cannot stand your insolence! Were your studies not important for the war effort, I'd have you court-martialed, shot, and sent to the Russian Front! Ha! Mess up once more, and I shall do just that!"

" _H-Herr Oberst,_ I shall do a better job of enforcing proper rules in the headquarters! Officers Meyer and Hochstettler shall be given severe correction for their dereliction of duty." _Leutnant_ Schneider saluted timidly. "I apologize once more that their actions compromised your investigations. Is there anything more the _General_ would like for me to do?"

Carter opened his mouth to send a scathing reply the German's way but was distracted by Newkirk's arrival. "Ah, _Feldwebel._ What have you to say of the building?" His question was clear: Have you completed the mission?

Newkirk was taken a bit off guard by the query, having momentarily forgotten the reason " _Feldwebel_ Kirkenheim" had been given permission to wander the headquarters alone. After a moment's hesitation, he replied, choosing his words carefully. " _Mein Herr,_ I examined as much of the building as I needed to. I would like to mention that the men here were not as helpful as they could have been. Either way, I believe we should take our leave now. I have seen enough." _And if we don't leave now, we won't be seeing anything else ever again, except maybe the inside of a Gestapo cell,_ he added silently.

Carter seemed to give it thought. After a few seconds, he shook his head and said, "Very well. We shall be off. Remember, _Leutnant_ Schneider, should you or your men step out of line one more time, you'll have the _General_ to deal with!" His humourless laugh echoed throughout the room. He turned to go. " _Feldwebel,_ what have I said about opening the door for your superiors? You are lucky I don't take away your stripes!" Carter grasped Newkirk's arm and sneered.

Newkirk nodded dumbly. After being released, he leaped forward to do the man's bidding. _"Jawohl!"_ After leaving the building, they both sighed. Newkirk murmured, "Come on, mate. We haven't got much time 'fore they realize that we weren't 'o we said we were."

~\\*/~

 _Does that mean we screwed up the mission? Well, at least we're still alive_ , Carter thought nervously. "Were you able to get the safe open?"

"Was I able to—Of course I could get the safe open! There was no problem getting the bleeding thing open. It was the German what _saw_ me open the ruddy thing that caused the problem!" Newkirk exploded. "I gave him a knock on the old noggin, but I don't doubt they'll have figured us out soon."

As if on cue, the doors burst open, and bullets started flying. _"Halt! Halt!"_ Germans soldiers poured out of the building, shouting and firing their pistols.

The two POWs looked at each other and began to flee. They didn't dare look back. The snowy ground was bumpy and uneven. On the way to the building, Carter had almost tripped. Newkirk had needed to steady him and had reprimanded him while doing so. Had the two remembered that incident, their escape might have gone better. As it was, they were far too focused on not getting shot to pay attention to their footing.

All of a sudden, Newkirk cried out. Carter whipped his head around to see if his friend was all right. As luck would have it, that brief loss of focus meant that he didn't notice when his foot fell into a small pothole. Pain shot up his ankle. Carter lost his balance and began to fall. He blindly reached out to grab something—anything!—to stop his descent, but the object he grabbed did little to help his situation. Despite his best efforts, he continued to tumble. As he rolled, he felt the sharp rocks dig into his back and sides.

He was vaguely aware of the sounds of another person grunting in pain near him. Presumably, his companion was suffering the same fate. When Carter reached the bottom, he lay there for a second, panting. His head began to clear, giving way to the memory of what had happened. He sat straight up. "Wait! Newkirk! Where are you, Newkirk?" His eyes darted back and forth, searching for his friend.

A groan sounded from nearby. Turning his head in the direction of the sound, Carter spied the Englishman lying on the ground next to him. "Newkirk! Are you all right?" There was no answer. He leaned over his friend, tapping his face gently. "Newkirk!"

The Englishman moaned once more and opened his eyes slightly. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He blinked lazily. Soon, his eyes began to close.

"No, wait. Newkirk, you have to stay awake!" Carter shook his shoulder.

The sound of bullets and shouting drew his attention to his pursuers. He had forgotten about the danger they both were in. Carter looked up and realized he would need a safe hiding place. He spotted a cove not two yards away. His gaze shifted to the immobile Englishmen beside him. "I'm sorry for this, buddy. I've got to do it, though. We just don't have the time to wait." He stood and immediately gasped at the pain in his ankle.

A quick look told him all he needed to know. His ankle looked like it had swallowed a baseball. A quick test old him that putting weight on it was not going to be good. He got on his knees, trying to ignore the biting cold and the feel of the snow soaking through his pants. He grabbed Newkirk underneath the armpits and, walking on his knees, dragged him to the nearby cove. It worried him that his friend only groaned softly.

After getting his friend settled on the ground, he sat down and tried not to make much noise. When he was sure the Germans were gone, he sighed and looked at Newkirk. "Come on, buddy. Wake up." He tapped the brunet's face.

After a minute, Newkirk's eyelashes fluttered. He opened his eyes halfway.

"Peter! Peter, are you okay?" Carter called out.

Newkirk's eyes stared straight up, unseeing. After a second, he blinked once, then twice. His eyes moved over to focus on Carter. He blinked once more. "Eh?" he slurred. "Wha—"

"Peter, it's me. Are you okay?" Carter questioned, eyebrows furrowing.

Newkirk winced and reached up a hand to touch his head. "Ugh. I feel . . ." His hand dropped limply to his side. His eyes began to close.

Carter shifted closer until his knees were pressed up against Newkirk's legs. He opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, the unconscious man moaned in pain. Confused, Carter moved away and examined him.

Blood seeped from a wound on Newkirk's right thigh, turning the fabric near the wound a deep red. "Oh, boy," Carter muttered quietly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter! :3
> 
> Soli Deo gloria,
> 
> LHDD


	3. Chapter 3

"Where could they be?" Hogan mumbled to himself. A cup of coffee sat untouched on the desk in front of him. He was gathered in his room with James Kinchloe and Louis LeBeau, two of his men.

From his seat on the bed, Kinchloe stated, "It's not like it's that much later than the time you gave them. Surely they're on their way back by now, Colonel."

"But, Kinch! What do we do if they have gotten captured? Carter was worried about this mission," LeBeau said. He had been pacing back and forth for the twenty minutes that Newkirk and Carter had been late. "I hope they're okay. . ."

Hogan stood up. He held out his hands as if to placate the men. "Well, we can't do anything about it. If they don't show up for forty more minutes, we'll contact Little Miss Muffet and see if she's seen them. She is the closest contact, after all. Until then, we shouldn't worry about them." His words did little to dispel the almost palpable tension in the room.

~\\*/~

Carter sat with his back against the wall, watching the snowflakes drift lazily to the ground. How long had he been here? What was he going to do? He needed to get himself and Newkirk back to the stalag. But if he had a sprained ankle, and Newkirk had been shot in the leg, what could he do?

 _Wow. My dream really was accurate._ He shivered (whether from that thought or the cold he did not know) and glanced at the pale figure next to him. Newkirk lay on the ground, Carter's green handkerchief tied around the bullet wound in his leg. Draped over him was Carter's coat. His sergeant helmet had been lost at some point, likely during the fall. Had it not been for the obvious blood-stained fabric around his leg, he would have looked like he were just taking a nap.

"I suppose it's time to try to get you up," Carter remarked. He crawled over to the man and tapped his cheek. "Hey, Newkirk? Are you okay? You need to wake up, please."

After a few seconds, the Englishman moved his head and groaned, beginning to shiver. Soon, his eyes opened. Like before, he had seemed not quite all there. He blinked a few times and grimaced, shivering. "Wh—What is it? Aw, my ruddy head. . ." He raised a hand to clutch at his head. His accent was thicker than usual, but Carter attributed it to the fact that Newkirk appeared to still be groggy. He shifted and was suddenly in agony. His left leg felt like it was on fire. He screamed involuntarily.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy. I'm so glad you're back!" Carter's relief was evident in his tone. "I was so worried about you."

Newkirk's brow furrowed. While his eyes seemed clearer than before, there was something different about them. "Worried about me? But why . . . ?"

Carter cocked his head. "Because you're my friend?"

Newkirk blinked. "Friend? . . . I'm sorry, but who are you, mate?"

Carter suddenly felt as though ice ran through his veins. "Wh—what did you say?"

~\\*/~

He stared at the young man peering over him, wondering at the reason for the look of surprise he saw. _Friend? How can he be my friend? I think I'd remember if I knew someone like him. And why is it so blooming cold?_ he mused. Just when he'd decided to say something, the man claiming to be his "friend" bit his lip.

"Of course I'm your friend, Peter!" The expression on the young man's face looked so sincere that, for a moment, he found himself doubting himself. He watched as the man blew on his hands in an attempt to warm them. "I—it's also snowing. Uh, we have to find a way to get us back to camp without, y'know, dying in the snow or anything like that."

_What is he nattering on about? I've never seen this bloke before in my entire life!_

"Newkirk, what are you talking about? You've known me for years!"

 _What? How can he know what I'm thinking? Either I'm going barmy, or he is. . . Am I saying this all out loud? Oh, bugger this! There's no other bleeding explanation for it!_ Despite his confusion, he found his eyes growing heavy. Darkness seemed to be overtaking him. His eyes flew open at the feel of a hand on his shoulder.

The young man's concern was obvious. "Newkirk, what are you talking abou—"

He was puzzled. His head hurt. He was confused. His head wouldn't stop pounding. The room was spinning. What was that ringing in his ears? How could he have thought the room was cold when it was beginning to feel so nice and warm? Ugh. Why did his head have a heartbeat? Darkness rolled over him in waves.

~\\*/~

"How long has it been again, Kinch?" LeBeau took yet another round around the room. "Something is wrong. I can feel it."

A reluctant half-smile made its way across Kinch's face. "It's 11:30. They should be back soon."

LeBeau muttered, "More like an hour ago. . ."

Colonel Hogan emerged from his room, frowning. "I don't like this. Kinch, get down there and contact Little Miss Muffet. Ask if she's seen Newkirk or Carter."

Kinch nodded and ran for the tunnel.

"What about me, _colonel_? I want to help, too!" LeBeau begged, practically on his knees. "What would you like me to do?"

Hogan stroked his chin. "If they need our help, you and I might be going out of there tonight. In the meantime, put on some coffee."

LeBeau visibly wilted. "Yes, sir."

~\\*/~

Newkirk had been lying there in that same position for the last . . . thirty minutes? Had they been there for an hour? Two? Time seemed to flow unevenly. Carter bit his lip. He had checked Newkirk's temperature earlier and had been disappointed to realize that the brunet had a small fever. Carter assumed it was from the bullet he'd taken to the leg. Since they had made the cove their hiding place, he had examined Newkirk's handkerchief-wrapped wound many times. While it was no longer bleeding profusely, the hole was still bleeding sluggishly. _I should be doing something to help!_ Carter thought guiltily. _I wish I could take him back to camp, but I don't know how I could carry him with my ankle like it is._

He sighed, shuddering at the cold. How had this mission gone so poorly? Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he had hit his head on a rock during that tumble, and this was all a dream. He froze. _Wait. Maybe_ Newkirk _hit his head on a rock! That could be why he was acting so weird. Maybe his head just hurts? Maybe he's got a huge headache or even a concussion?_ It may have been a long shot, but it was also a distinct possibility. Grabbing the stick he'd been using as a crutch, Carter shuffled over to the immobile POW and began to check his head for bumps.

Sure enough, Newkirk was sporting a rather large lump on his head. Based on his confusion, fatigue, and dizziness, Carter suspected a concussion was the culprit. He awoke Newkirk again to ask him how many fingers he saw Carter hold up.

Once more, the Cockney man grabbed at his head. How had Carter not noticed his pupils before? One was noticeably larger than the other. Now that he had regained consciousness, Newkirk's shivering increased. "Hey, what's with the. . ." He blinked and realized that he was in a small cave of some sort with someone he sort of recognized, albeit vaguely. "Oh, it's you again. What are we doing here? Why is it so cold? What happened to me?"

"Newkirk, listen to me. I'll answer your questions, but you have to answer mine first. How many fingers am I holding up?" Carter's voice was steady and seemed to have a calming effect on the discombobulated man. "How many fingers?" he repeated upon seeing Newkirk's eyes turn unfocused. He put a hand on his shoulder.

Newkirk blinked sluggishly and slurred, "How many? I'd say 'bout five or so. Six, maybe? . . .—" He yawned— "Oi. I'm right knackered." He peered at Carter's face, confused. "Who are you again? Do I know you?"

Carter nodded, putting his two fingers down. "Yes. Yes, you do. I'm your good friend Andrew. . . You've got a bad headache, don't you?" At Newkirk's nod, he said, "Don't worry. We'll get you back to the colonel one way or the other. We'll be safe then."

"Safe? Safe from who?" Newkirk's voice was little more than a whisper at this point. He had almost lost consciousness once more.

Carter frowned. "Safe from the Germans. Hey. Hey, Newkirk!" He tapped the man's face again. "What do you remember last?"

Newkirk seemed to think about it for a minute. His eyes slipped closed.

"Peter!"

Newkirk jerked, and his eyes opened again. He cried out in pain from the bullet wound. When he had regained composure, he grumbled, "What happened?"

"We went on a mission to get something from a safe. Peter, do you remember the colonel?"

Newkirk didn't answer. Instead, he bit his lip. "What did you call me?"

"Oh. I called you Peter."

Newkirk frowned. "But that's not my name! I'm . . . uh, my name's . . . Blimey! I can't remember what it is." A horrified expression took over his face. His light blue eyes widened in fear. He began to hyperventilate. "I—I can't remember. Why can't I remember? Oh, bl—"

Carter put his hands on Newkirk's shoulders. "Hey, calm down. We have to get out of here. Can you stand?" He offered his hand as support.

Newkirk grasped it somewhat firmly and allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position. When the movement jarred his leg, he clenched his teeth. He was resolved not to make a noise. Seconds later, a groan escaped his mouth.

"Are—Are you okay? Should we stop?" Carter leaned in, eyes showing his worry. "Because we can if you need to!"

"No," Newkirk managed to say after he could think again. "I—What was your name again, mate?"

"Andrew. My name's Andrew Carter," the American supplied eagerly.

Newkirk nodded and then winced at the pain the motion brought. "Right. Andrew. Well, I'll try to get up, but I'm not sure how much . . . I can do. . ." Just then, he blinked three times in quick succession. A yawn escaped his mouth. "Sorry, Andrew. . . I'm not sure I can—" he yawned once more— "stay awake." His eyes began to droop.

"Uh, Peter, I'm not sure it's a good idea to fall asleep. I mean, what happens if your concussion is a serious problem and you pass out or something like that? That would be awful!" Unfortunately, Newkirk heard not a word of this concerned speech, for his head had tipped back to lean against the cove wall, and his eyes had slipped shut. "Newkirk?!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Ready, LeBeau?" Colonel Hogan questioned, a foot already on the ladder leading out of the tunnel.

LeBeau nodded. " _Oui, mon colonel!_ I am ready!" The small man was practically bouncing with a mixture of eagerness and nervousness.

"Good. Kinch?" Hogan turned to face the man he'd leave behind. "We'll try to be back by roll call. If not, think of something, will you?"

Kinch's attempt at a smile was less than convincing. However, his voice was strong when he stated, "Will do, sir. If nothing else, I'm sure we can have a contagious virus of some sort in our barracks," he laughed. Despite how impressive an actor as he and the rest of the men had become, he could not completely erase the worry in his voice. He tried to assure himself that he had waited longer and on less dangerous missions. He had always hated that part.

Unfortunately, he was usually the one to stay at the stalag during missions. It wasn't as though Hogan or his men disliked him or thought him incompetent. Rather it was that he was less likely than they to blend in as a German as a result of his dark skin tone. He knew that Hogan would give him extra things to do on missions to make him feel like he was truly a part of their chicanery. Perhaps it was even to make up for his inability to masquerade as a German officer in person. The colonel would never admit it if asked, of course.

Although Kinch was no stranger to having to stay behind while the others went off and risked their lives, the anxiousness never seemed to fade completely. He widened his not-quite smile and added, "Stay safe. Bring them back."

Hogan looked at him then, all traces of joviality faded. He nodded. "Hold down the fort. Hey, if London asks, our dance card is full for the night." He winked then, and the shift from serious to joking was so rapid that Kinch was almost amused. The colonel was the kind of man to cover his worry with humour, after all.

Kinch's sloppy salute brought a real smile to his commanding officer's face. "Yes, sir." As he watched the two of them leave, he couldn't completely assuage the pit of worry deep in his stomach. _Something's different this time, Lord,_ he prayed. _Be with them, please._

~\\*/~

"Newkirk, you have to wake up. We have to get going! Come on, Newkirk," Carter pleaded. He had been trying to awaken his unconscious companion for the last few minutes and had begun to get worried. He tapped Newkirk's face again. "Look, buddy, I've wrapped my ankle in my extra handkerchief. I have a stick now, too! That means I can help support you! You can lean on me, and I should be able to keep you standing for more than two seconds!"

Sadly, his joyous news garnered no response from Newkirk, who had yet to regain consciousness. Carter finally stood and made to take a step. He gasped in pain upon putting weight on his ankle. He grit his teeth.

What to do? At this rate, he wouldn't have to worry about Newkirk dying from a gunshot wound. The cold would get him. _Actually,_ he thought distantly, _it might be the death of both of us if we don't get someplace warm soon. We should've left ages ago! What if he goes into shock? Oh, wait. He's probably already in shock. . . Boy, I just wanted to make sure he didn't do to much, especially since he's been shot and all. Now he'll die, and it'll be my fault._ With that cheery thought, Carter resolved to get Newkirk back at all costs. Taking a shuddering breath, he straightened his back and resumed his attempt to wake up his friend.

~\\*/~

He slowly became aware of a deep, biting cold enveloping his whole being, as though it were the only thing other than he to exist. Something kept touching his cheek. He tried to ignore it but was unsuccessful. Who was making that noise? Seemingly without his permission, his eyes opened.

That young man was peering down over him, biting his lip nervously. "Peter! You're awake! Come on, I know you don't want to do it, but we have to stand up and get back to camp. Don't worry. I'll explain everything along the way."

Peter blinked sluggishly, trying to digest the information and situation. He suddenly became aware that they were still in that alcove. He groaned inwardly. If he remembered right, this man claimed to be his friend. But what had he said his name was? "Anderson, was it?" _Somehow,_ he thought, _that doesn't sound quite right. Then again, since I've apparently no memory of anything, least of all my own name, everything sounds odd. . ._

"Uh, it's Andrew, actually." He must've looked disappointed because Andrew hurried on to say, "Don't worry. You were close! Anderson's not that far off from Andrew. Actually, when I was younger, my cousin—He's got a long name. It's because of our heritage, you see. Mine's not so bad when you think about it. . ."

Something behind Andrew drew Peter's attention. There was quite a bit of snow outside! _Blimey! That must be why I can't stop shivering!_ He realized with a grimace that Andrew was likely going to say that they would have to go out into that kind of awful weather. He shuddered at the thought and swallowed slowly. He was definitely not looking forward to that. He sighed. When he looked up, he saw that Andrew was still talking.

"So he went to ask our grandfather why that had happened to him and not to me. I don't know for sure what Grandfather said, but I did see Angry Rabbit with Thorn in Cottontail storm out there about an hour later. He didn't speak to me or my dog for at least a week afterward!"

Peter blinked, not sure how to respond. His head was beginning to hurt worse. He nodded and then winced at the motion. "All right, mate. I'll try."

Andrew stopped his animated retelling of whatever had happened to him—and his pet rabbit?—when he was a child. He stared at Peter, brow furrowed in confusion.

"The whole 'leaving to go to camp' thing," Peter stated slowly. "I'll try."

Andrew visibly brightened at the knowledge. "Great! Uh, I guess you'll need help getting up, then." He fingered a staff of some sort that lay beside the two of them.

Peter scowled, making his displeasure known. However, after Andrew struggled to his feet—and what was that about? Had he gotten injured in . . . whatever had happened to make them end up in this frozen cavern thing?—and extended a hand to help Peter stand, the Englishman found that his mind was on more pressing matters. He let out a string of curses as Andrew pulled him up to a standing position.

By the time it was done, he felt as though he were going to lose consciousness once again. He felt as though someone were stabbing his leg over and over with a white-hot sword. His grip on reality fading, he began to sag in Andrew's grip.

"No! Peter, you have to stand up! Please, just a few steps, okay?" Andrew's voice seemed far away but somehow served to anchor Peter a bit.

He grit his teeth and waited for the pain to subside. Minutes later, it did marginally. Panting, Peter turned his head to face his friend.

"We'll take it easy, okay? Here, put your arm around my shoulder. That's it. Lean on me. I—I can take it. We'll stop in a little bit." Andrew's voice was calming and steady. It was almost as if he knew how badly Peter wanted to sit down and never move again, or how worried Peter was that he would be unable to make it through the snow in his condition, or even how Peter was trying to hide the deep-seated fear that he would never be able to remember what he seemed to have forgotten.

Peter gulped and grinned half-heartedly. "Here you are leading me out into a ruddy blizzard. And you call yourself my friend!" he scoffed. He could tell that his words would not have quite the same effect as they would have had he not been struggling not to pass out with every step.

Nevertheless, Andrew smiled. "Call it payback for all you've put me through!" he chuckled and then paused. "Oh, wait. You don't remember." He smiled awkwardly at the way his attempted joke had fallen flat. "Well, uh, believe me. I think it's justified!"

Shocked, Peter peered at him. "Have I really done things that would make you want to leave me in a blizzard?"

Andrew looked at him then, as if to find out if Peter was genuinely curious. Something flickered in his eyes, perhaps something he had seen, which seemed to spur the American to clarify his words. "No, no! You're a great friend! . . . The best I could have, honestly. You and I—Well, we joke around a lot. We fight, too, but it's usually more joking for us. I mean, sometimes your words hurt, but that's okay. You're my best friend! I wouldn't give that up for the world."

Peter could tell that Andrew meant every word. He could think of no proper response to that, so he merely nodded and mumbled, "For what it's worth, I think it's safe to say I'm lucky to have you as my friend." He felt quite uncomfortable with the show of emotion and looked down at the cavern's floor.

Andrew seemed to notice this. He bit his lip and shifted his gaze to the mouth of the cove. "Well, I suppose we'd better start moving."

Peter wanted to complain. His leg was killing him. His head wouldn't stop its pounding. He was exhausted. The movement made him dizzy and nauseated. He didn't truly know this man! What made him think waltzing out of there with all his injuries and being led by a strange person who claimed to be his friend was a good idea? Everything within him protested the action. Well, everything but the sincerity Andrew appeared to have.

Truth be told, Peter wasn't sure he should be judging anyone's character when he didn't even know his own. Still, he couldn't help but feel like there was something about his "friend" that was true. Peter felt lost without his memories. Something about this Andrew kept him grounded. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe Peter really was his friend. If not, at least Peter could be getting closer to finding out the truth about himself, right?

A pang in his leg reminded him of the seriousness of the situation. Any reason he could come up with to ask for Andrew to let him rest first would be completely legitimate and understandable. A look at the man's face, however, made the words die in Peter's mouth.

"We've got to get you back to the stalag. Wilson'll patch you up." Andrew's voice was strained. "We have to actually leave this place to do that, though. Come on, buddy."

Peter sighed, knowing that Andrew was right. Gritting his teeth, he managed to take five steps before leaning against his friend. He breathed deeply during the respite, trying to steel himself for more.

"That's it. Come on. Take a few more steps," Andrew soothed. There was a touch of pain in his voice, tinting his words just slightly. Peter wondered what would cause him to be hurting but didn't ask.

After a moment, he sighed and looked ahead, determined to make it back to this "stalag" Andrew talked about. He briefly wondered what such a thing would be. It didn't sound incredibly imposing, but the word wasn't necessarily comforting, either. Two agonizingly slow steps later, he began to stare at Andrew. "Tell me what I've missed. . ." At the man's blank stare, he clarified, "What I don't remember . . . about you, about the camp, about my family, and about why we're here, traipsing around in the bleeding snow at night. I want to know."

Andrew seemed to heave a great sigh and, seeming almost amused, stated, "Well, I can tell you as much as I know."

"That seems like a good start, mate."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I've fixed the mix-up with the chapters. This is the complete version of chapter five! :D)
> 
> Edit: . . . Yikes. After rereading it, it was obvious that I'd been tired while writing this. I've cleaned it up a bit. Hopefully, this should be better than it was.

Hogan held back a branch for LeBeau so the Frenchman wouldn't be smacked by it. "I think we're about thirty minutes away from the building." _Even with all this time walking, I haven't been able to figure out a plan yet,_ he thought wryly. _We could march in there and demand to know where those two Gestapo men went. Still, I can't shake the feeling that their mission failed. If I go with my gut instinct . . ._

 _"Colonel!"_ LeBeau's frantic voice cut through his thoughts. "There are people up ahead!"

Hogan's head popped up, eyes darting around. Because they weren't sure whether the mission had been completed or not, he and LeBeau had decided to wear the uniforms of an _Unterfeldwebel_ and an _Oberleutnant._ Without a glance to his companion, Hogan stepped forward to greet the men. _"Achtung!"_

The men snapped to attention. Thankfully, their ranks were far less imposing. _"J-Jawohl, mein Herr!"_ one of them managed to say.

Hogan sneered, "What are you up to in this area of woods? We are performing special tests here. Any trespassing is _verboten!"_

The one on the right, an _Obersoldat_ , trembled. "We were looking for two men impersonating the Gestapo! They came into our headquarters and escaped before we could catch them!"

"How long ago was this, exactly?" Hogan simpered.

The _Gefreiter_ murmured, "About two hours ago, _mein Herr._ We were sent to look for them."

"And yet you have not found them in two whole hours?! _Dummköpfe!_ " Hogan's outrage, though directed at the men, was fueled by his worry for the two men. He took comfort in the fact that Newkirk and Carter at least hadn't been found yet. "What condition were these two men in? Were they wounded? Surely you were able to kill one of them!"

The two Germans, thoroughly cowed and humiliated, shook their heads sorrowfully. _"Nein,"_ they uttered in unison. Their admission seemed to be almost equal to a confession of a crime, for they bowed their heads and waited for the colonel to dole out their punishment.

LeBeau shook his head in fake sympathy for the two men. "You poor fools! Well, I can assure you that they are not in this area. Had they been, our dogs would have found them. I suggest you return to your building and look over there. And I would hurry if I were you. Our dogs roam the whole forest, keeping anyone from interfering in the testing. They will not discriminate in their . . . discouragement."

As the two Germans yelped and scurried away, Hogan sighed in relief. "Well, at least we know the Germans don't have them. I guess it's time to search the forest."

LeBeau shook his head. "If only we'd actually brought some of the dogs. I bet they could find Pierre and André for us."

Hogan shrugged in defeat. "As it is, we have an idea of what happened, and we know they escaped into the woods near the headquarters. Guess we should head there and look along the way." With that, he and LeBeau resumed their search.

~\\*/~

Carter could feel consciousness returning to him slowly. As if in a fog, he shifted positions and began to get more comfortable. Something on top of him moved, startling him. Concentrating of the feel of it, he realized that it was something soft and squishy . . . and that this heavy thing was obviously not supposed to be on top of him. _Huh? But what . . . ?_ He furrowed his brow then, deciding to open his eyes.

He was met with the sight of a head of brown hair in front of him. Eyes wide, he gazed at his surroundings. A long stick lay beside him, discarded in favour of the earthen wall that had become his support, no doubt. A moan from the figure was enough to trigger the memories of what had happened. _Oh. I remember now. I must've fallen asleep._

They had been trying to get back to camp. Newkirk had only been able to make it two minutes without almost passing out. He and Carter had stopped to lean against a tree to catch their breath before heading out again. Unfortunately, Newkirk's concussion had come back in full force. Head swimming, he had nearly collapsed three steps afterward. With a cry of "I've got to chunder!" the brunet had promptly emptied his stomach of its contents shortly thereafter. Despite his sprained ankle, Carter was doing much better than his companion was. Forgoing the stick, he had taken much of Newkirk's weight and practically dragged him to a nearby section with an outcropping of earth. It had offered them cover from the blizzard and seemed to afford them some sort of safe spot to rest.

He glanced down at the still figure half on top of him. Because Newkirk's body temperature had seemed to be dropping steadily, Carter had offered his coat as a blanket. _Wait!_ Carter froze. _How long have we been here? Isn't there some sort of rule about waking people with concussions? Well, better late than never, right? Boy, I sure hope the colonel is looking for us!_ He shook his friend's shoulder. "Hey! Newkirk, come on! You have to get up!"

When Newkirk did not react at all, Carter began to get worried. With a grimace, he tried to push away the nagging thought that the Englishman might be dead. "Listen, you have to move! Peter, I . . ." He trailed off as an idea hit him. Sure, Newkirk was unable to remember much about his life, but if his time during boot camp had meant anything to him, Carter's plan to wake him up just might work. The American tensed in sympathy and then barked, "On your feet, corporal! That's an order!"

His voice must have had the undertone of steel he was going for, for the authority behind it registered with Newkirk's unconscious mind. The brunet jerked into a sitting position, letting out a hiss at the movement his leg had to endure. His hand in a salute of some sort, he looked a miserable representation of what a soldier at attention should be, but Carter didn't care all that much. Newkirk blinked then, a picture of confusion. "Andrew . . . ?"

Carter nodded. "I'm sorry to wake you up, but we've got to check and make sure you're okay with that concussion and all. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Newkirk's eyes were red-rimmed and tired-looking, but he stared at Carter's outstretched hand anyway. "I'm going to go with four, mate," he stated eventually.

Carter nodded, relieved. "Who am I?"

Newkirk bit his lip. "You're my friend Andrew . . . C-Cart—Car—something-or-other."

"Carter! Andrew Carter!" He smiled. "Where are we?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Someplace in Germany? Bleeding Krauts all over the place . . ."

Carter nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm not all that sure where we are, either," he admitted.

"Is that the last question?" Newkirk sighed wearily, putting a hand to his head. "I hate to admit it, but I think my brain's still a bit addled," he admitted, a sheepish look on his face.

Carter shrugged. "I think that's good for now. Hey, can you stand? We have to try to make it back soon. Klink'll have roll call soon, and we don't want to miss that. I'm sure the colonel can come up with some kind of excuse, but I'd rather be back there safe and sound instead of out here in the middle of nowhere, you know?"

Newkirk's expression indicated his confusion. "Hold on a minute there. You lost me, mate. Klink? Roll call?"

Carter's eyes went wide. "Oh, did I not tell you about that earlier? Well, every morning, Klink, the Kommandant of the Stalag—I did tell you that we're at Stalag XII, right?—Well, Klink holds a roll call to make sure none of us have escaped. He's so proud that his stalag has 'never had a successful escape,' but it actually has. Y'see, Colonel Hogan—"

"That's the American officer what's in charge, right?"

Carter nodded. "Yep! That's him. Well, he secretly runs this operation behind the Krauts' backs! We help people escape from Germany, blow up things to make their lives more difficult, and so much more!"

"Blimey! That's a tall order! And we help with all that?"

Not put off by Newkirk's incredulity, Carter continued. "You bet! Why, just last week, we pulled off a mission that had you acting as _Gruppenfuhrer_ Newkirkmueller, the head of an elite group of Schutzstaffel men! It was amazing!"

"And all so we can confuse the Jerries and help end the war?"

Carter's voice was animated as he affirmed the statement. "Yeah! You know, we've gotten to fool some pretty high-up people, too! Last Monday, we were in Berlin, and . . ."

~\\*/~

Klink reclined on his couch, sipping a glass of warm milk. For how much of a _Dummkopf_ Schultz could be, he certainly did his best to try to please his superior. _Not that he doesn't fail more often than not,_ Klink mused to himself. Nevertheless, he did feel quite at home wearing his silk robe, relaxing on the couch, not being annoyed by Major Hochstetter or Colonel Hogan. _Come to think of it, I haven't heard from Hogan in a few hours. Actually, I don't think he's come in to talk to me about any of his crazy ideas since this morning._

Klink saw himself as fair and impartial. He felt that he was amazing at being a Kommandant of a prisoner of war camp. Therefore, it was only natural that Colonel Hogan should try to talk Klink out of forcing his men to do work details or should try to trick the Kommandant into being less of an Iron Eagle and more of the "father figure" the American claimed his men saw in him. _Not that any of his attempts work,_ Klink amended mentally. He was naturally a good-natured man, even if the Gestapo brought out a little bit of terror in him . . . and if General Burkhalter was a little intimidating, well, he was intimidating to everyone, right? That's how he had become a general, after all.

Either way, Hogan tried to irritate him every day. It was like the American took pleasure in such things. While Klink was sure he would never let Hogan win, he was suspicious at not having heard from him in so long. Had he tried to escape? Were his men meeting as part of that "escape committee" that had been mentioned earlier? Klink bit his lip. Nothing must sully his record . . . not that anything could, of course. Nevertheless, he knew what he had to do. "Schultz!" he called.

Within seconds, the sergeant of the guard came inside and stood at attention. _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"_

"Call for a roll call!"

With a salute, the portly sergeant pivoted and headed outside.

"And Schultz!"

Schultz hurried back into the Kommandant's quarters. "Uh, _ja?"_

"I want to know if anyone is missing or sick. Now, what are you waiting for? Go!"

Schultz nodded. _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was in a writing mood yesterday, apparently. In between church, I wrote almost two chapters! :D I also did other things, but they don't pertain to the story. :3 Anyway, I hope you enjoy the next chapter!
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Two chapters in as many days! :D I feel so proud! Anyway, the story continues. I'll try to get the next one up soon, but it might even be next week depending on what this week has in store.
> 
> Oh! I should mention that there are OCs mentioned in this chapter. They're not important, really. They're here only to drive along the plot, like the German officers at the headquarters and all that.

Word that Klink was demanding a roll call got to Kinch in just enough time for him to get upstairs and wake the men. By the time Schultz burst into the room, the two defected Germans waiting to escape were snuggled up in Carter and LeBeau's beds. Baker and Barkley seemed to be putting a cold compress on "LeBeau's" forehead. Alden and Pevensie were doing the same to "Carter." Kinch stepped forward, a false smile on his face. "Hey, Schultz! You're up awfully late. What's our favorite guard doing here at a time like this?"

"There is no time to talk, Kinchloe. The Kommandant has ordered that we have a roll call."

Kinch winced. "And have this virus spread to you and the other guards? Not a good idea, Schultz. Trust me, you've had better." He crossed his arms, trying to appear as calm as Colonel Hogan always did.

The sergeant leaned in close. "What? A virus?"

Kinch nodded sagaciously. "It hit the men last night. Jones and Smith had it this morning, and now it's spread to half the barracks."

Schultz gazed around in awe. Truly, those who weren't in bed appeared to be tending the others. "But . . . but where is Colonel Hogan?"

Kinch threw an arm around Schultz's shoulders. "He was one of the first to get it. You know how it is. If it's for us, he'll wear himself down to the bone. If we don't have enough food, he gives us some of his. If one of us needs someone to talk to, and we're confined to barracks, he acts the chaplain for us, even if it's late, and he needs the sleep. He stays up some nights just to make sure we're doing okay. All that takes a toll on a man. By the time the virus rolled around, he was so tired and weak that he got sick just like that." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point.

Schultz frowned. "Poor Colonel Hogan. He must do a lot for you. I can see that he cares." He patted Kinch on the back and turned to go. "Wait. The Kommandant has insisted I see him and make sure he has not escaped."

With a blink, Kinch raised an eyebrow. "You want to put yourself through that? Newkirk was the first to get sick—you know how weak his immune system is—so he stayed in the colonel's quarters. Colonel Hogan got it right after Newkirk. It isn't pretty in there. Smells awful bad."

Schultz's resolve physically weakened. He sighed, "I will peek my head in there and then leave."

"Well, it's your funeral." Kinch shrugged. "We don't know what this virus is, but we think it's airborne. Whatever it is, it's too late for us not to get it. None of the men have recovered yet. We might just have to self-quarantine in the barracks."

A soft whining noise escaped Schultz's throat. "Well, if you promise that he and Newkirk are in there."

"I do." Kinch hid his smile behind a cough.

Schultz jolted and began to exit. As if on cue, the sound of someone hacking and wheezing came from Hogan's quarters. "I—I think that Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk are in there. I will be going now." Another man in the barracks coughed, which was enough to send Schultz bolting out the door.

Kinch straightened up and smiled at the men in the barracks. "Olsen, you can come out now." As Olsen left the colonel's room to rejoin the others, Kinch let out a laugh from deep in his belly. "Well, we've done our part. It's all up to the colonel now. Fooling the Krauts never gets old!"

~\\*/~

By the time Colonel Hogan and LeBeau made it to the headquarters, they had still not been able to find the missing men. "But where can they be?" LeBeau wailed, a distinct slump his shoulders.

"I'm not sure, LeBeau, but they've got to be somewhere around here. Let's start at the headquarters. They'd have been going this way, back toward the stalag," Colonel Hogan ran a hand through his hair. "How could one mission have gone so wrong?"

LeBeau heaved a sigh and took a step away from the building only to slip on a patch of ice. Had Hogan not reached out to catch him, he might have fallen down into the gorge. As it was, after being rescued, he stood there for a few seconds, trying to steady his breathing. _"M—merci, mon colonel,"_ he finally managed.

Nodding absently, Hogan peered down at the embankment. "I wonder." He flicked the light of his flashlight onto the snow. There were many rocks jutting out of the fresh powder, but there were also broken twigs. Something had been there recently. While his logical side told him that it could have been the soldiers searching for Newkirk and Carter, he had to check it out just to be safe. "Come with me."

LeBeau followed without hesitation. When they got to the bottom, he paled. Without so much as a cry or a warning, he pitched forward onto the snow.

"LeBeau!" Hogan cried out, reaching down to pick up the Frenchman. After doing so, he noticed what had caused LeBeau to lose consciousness. A few feet away, a patch of snow was stained with blood.

~\\*/~

"Newkirk, we should get moving again." Carter rewrapped his handkerchief around the bullet wound, thankful that the bleeding seemed to have stopped entirely. He was most worried about Newkirk's temperature now. The cold had not done anything to warm them up, and with all the blood the Englishman had lost, Carter's worry began to grow. "Come on, buddy."

Newkirk stirred and mumbled, accent thick, "Not now, mum. I've got a ruddy awful headache. Just let me take a kip. There's a dear. . ."

Carter mused absently that, had this been literally any other situation, he would've thought Newkirk's wording hilarious. As it was, he really needed to get his friend up and moving. "No, you need to get up. You have a concussion, you see. We really need to get you back to the stalag." He tapped Newkirk's cheek a few more times, biting his lip.

Finally Newkirk groaned and opened his eyes. "Fine, fine. I'm awake." He blinked at the sight of Carter and sat up, trying to recall why he was in this situation in the first place. "Andrew, was it?"

Carter nodded, giving a sigh of relief. "Yeah, boy! How many fingers am I holding up?" After going through the whole ordeal with him, he finally nodded in confirmation. "I just had to check."

"No need to make a big kerfuffle about it, mate. I mean, it may have gone all to pot, but at least we're alive, right?" He blinked slowly, his words beginning to slur again. "That's got to count for something."

Carter could tell Newkirk was beginning to drift back into unconsciousness, so he stood up. Banding over to grab his stick, he said, "Here, while we walk, I'll tell you more things about camp! Or I can tell you about my family. What do you want to know?"

Newkirk groaned but slowly moved to stand. He had to pause halfway through in favour of vomiting. After a few more dry heaves than he felt was necessary, even if his body wouldn't listen to him on that regard, he was able to try standing again. Grimacing in pain, he got to his feet and muttered, "How 'bout what that phrase of yours means?"

Carter cocked his head. "What phrase?"

"You know, that one you do when you're surprised."

Carter blinked slowly. "Oh. Uff da?"

Newkirk nodded slowly because of the pain. "That one. I've heard a lot of weird words in my time—at least, I think I have—but that one takes the cake. What even is an 'oof dah'?"

Cater shrugged and then looped his arm around Newkirk. "Well, it's just something you say back where I come from. And you're one to talk! 'Anti-clockwise'? 'Scrummy'? 'Damp squib'? If you ask me, it's your words that sound weird, not mine."

"Well, only a bloke what doesn't speak the King's English would think that!" Newkirk's eyes, though dulled by pain, glittered at the quip.

That fueled Carter's mock ire. "King's English nothing! If your English were so great, wouldn't we speak like that back in America?"

"There's no accounting for bad taste."

Both of them laughed then, and the sound took a load off their shoulders. For a moment, everything was all right. They would try their best to get out of this predicament. There had no be some way out, right?

As the thought hit him, dampening the mood, Carter sighed, "I guess we should get moving." He helped Newkirk take a few steps, wincing at the pain from the pressure on his ankle.

~\\*/~

Peter's head was swimming. Everything felt cold and hot all at once. On the one hand, they might have left their shelter minutes ago. It might have been hours. He couldn't tell.

Andrew was babbling about something involving a mouse and one of the missions he said they'd been a part of as a team. Peter was no closer to remembering anything than he had been when he had lost his memory in the first place, but he was comforted to know that he had such good friends.

He tried to listen. He really did. Still, there was a sense of weightlessness accompanied by every step. His legs felt like irons, but the rest of his body was light in an almost ethereal way. His head was pounding worse with each passing minute. When had it gotten this bad? He was able to talk—to joke even—in the cavern and later on in that miniature cave. His head began to droop.

"Newkirk! Peter!" The voice of his friend seemed to help bring him around, if only marginally. He lifted his head and stared blearily at Andrew. Something seemed to shift then, and the American's words morphed into a garbled mess. Peter blinked, unable to decipher what was being said. He raised a hand to his aching head and resisted the urge to shake it. What was going on? The world began to spin, making him feel nauseated. One or two of Andrew's words broke through the fog that seemed to overtake Peter's mind. However, they made no sense to him.

He blinked rapidly and leaned against whatever thing he had been using as a crutch before—Had he been walking just a short time ago?—in an attempt to steady himself as the world tilted. His balance skewed, he took a heavy step with his right leg. Hissing at the sharp pain shooting through his whole body, he shifted all his weight onto his good leg. To steady himself, he leaned into the solid thing near him and promptly yelped as it gave way.

Something soft was underneath him. He opened his eyes to see snowflakes drifting down. _This is nice. . ._ The thought drifted through his mind lazily. He was quite comfortable, really. He might be able to take a nap while he was here. Why was he so tired, anyway? Well, it didn't matter. After all, he really seemed to need the sleep, and why not take it when it was offered? Almost without conscious effort, his eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a completely unrelated note, I've been freezing all day! Like, why is it so cold this week? I just want to wrap up in a warm blanket and sit there with a book . . . and, like, hot apple cider. Mmm! The thought of it! :3 . . . Oops. I'm rambling again.
> 
> See you at the next chapter! :D
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I'd like to thank DeathThouShaltDie (from Fanfiction.net) for pointing out an inconsistency with the timing. :D I've gone through the story now to fix it. The times in the story should all match up now.

"Newkirk!" Carter cried. If only he had been able to take the sudden weight of his friend, if only his traitorous ankle hadn't given way when Newkirk had suddenly fallen on top of him, if only. . . Well, there was no use in wishing to change things that had already happened.

Still, after Newkirk had leaned on him with all his weight, Carter's ankle had been unable to take it. It had folded painfully, causing the two to fall into the snow. Carter had popped back up immediately while Newkirk had lain there, seemingly dazed. As he watched the Englishman lose consciousness, the blond felt a pit of despair well up in his stomach. What if they couldn't make it back? What if they could, but Newkirk didn't get better? What if he never got his memories back? Carter tried to dismiss these thoughts by remembering that the dream had never said that they'd die, and that they could still try to make it back to the stalag.

A sound to his right made him jump. Well, it was really more of a an awkward, arm-flapping flop into the snow. Either way, he sat up and peered into the darkness, holding his hands up in a sort of defensive position. Oh, if only his gun hadn't been lost in the tumble down the hill! He breathed heavily, determined to protect Newkirk from whoever or whatever was approaching them.

The ones who emerged from the trees were the two people Carter had never expected. He couldn't have been more grateful if it had been the American Army out to liberate Germany. "Colonel! LeBeau" he cried.

A smile overtook Colonel Hogan's face. "Carter, what did I tell you about staying out late after the mission? It's past your bedtime."

Carter sighed in sheer relief and proceeded to tell him everything that had happened.

~\\*/~

LeBeau tuned them out. As much as he wanted to know what had happened, he preferred to wait until they were all safe and sound to hear the story. He crouched down to examine Newkirk and muttered in French. His attempts to wake up his friend were futile. He glanced up at the feel of a hand on his shoulder.

"LeBeau," Hogan ordered, "You walk with Carter. I'll take care of Newkirk."

"But, Colonel, I—"

Hogan shot him a look, effectively cutting off further protests. "I said I'll handle it. For now, though, we need to get going." LeBeau figured that the pitiful look of despondence on Carter's face was what prompted the colonel to amend his statement. "Look, if you promise to lean on LeBeau, you can help me carry his weight."

Carter brightened then, seemingly excited that he was able to assist his friend. "Boy, thank you!"

LeBeau sighed, once again bemoaning his height. If only he weren't as short, he could help, too. All he was fit for was to be a human crutch. He scowled.

Carter had the good fortune to look over right at that moment. Unfortunately, he didn't quite realize what had gotten the Frenchman so upset. "Don't worry, LeBeau. Newkirk didn't lose _that_ much blood. He should be okay soon. Wilson'll be able to take care of him."

 _Blood?!_ LeBeau's eyes widened. Before he could even think to form a reaction, his world went black. The last word he heard before losing consciousness was that of Colonel Hogan cursing under his breath.

~\\*/~

 _"Herr Oberleutnant,_ the car is waiting for you." _Feldwebel_ Johann Schneider inclined his head at his superior's gaze. "Where is it you would like me to take you? As always, I am at your beck and call."

Ludwig von Hohenheim sneered at the man, disdain written all over his features. _If only I hadn't agreed to take him on._ Ja, mein frau _would not be so happy,_ he conceded with a shrug. _Still, I would not have to deal with this bootlicker all the time!_ With a wave of his gloved hand, he muttered, "I have a meeting with Kommandant Schettler of Stalag X. We must be there in forty minutes exactly." He lifted a finger and shook it in the man's face. "Should we be even a minute late, I will have you court-martialed and shot!" _Anything to get rid of him,_ he added mentally.

As he had expected, the other man began to tremble. _"J-jawohl, mein Herr._ It will be as you say, of course. Forgive me for my insolence." With a shaking hand, _Feldwebel_ Schneider opened the door to the car and ushered his superior officer into its warmth.

The _Oberleutnant_ briefly considered scrutinizing the way his subordinate would climb into the driver's seat and start the car but ultimately decided against it. There was not a man alive who wouldn't be infuriated by the incessant apologies and groveling that came out of Schneider's mouth. _If it's not one, it's the other,_ von Hohenheim contemplated with a scowl. He leaned back and made himself comfortable for what he hoped to be a quick ride.

~\\*/~

Kinch sighed. Were it not for the concern constantly gnawing in his gut, he might have been bored. Here he was, all alone at the stalag. He had instructed the others to be on alert just in case Schultz decided to snoop again. Still, what was taking them so long? Why weren't they here? They had surely run into some kind of trouble. There was no accounting for their absence otherwise. What had gone wrong? What if Kinch had been there for them? Would it have changed things for the better?

A glance at the radio told him all he needed to know. It was silent. There were no new messages from London, no tips from the Underground, and not a word from the colonel. If only there were a way to find out if he could help.

 _But no. The colonel told me to stay put. But if—No. He trusts me to make sure the operation stays safe._ He sighed. _There must be something I can do to make sure everything's prepared for when they get back, though. . ._ With that somewhat depressing thought, he set about organizing the medical supplies they kept down in the tunnel for emergencies. If the men were injured, there would be bandages in that corner and the closest thing they had to disinfectant in the other. The bedding for the extra cot had just been washed, so he could replace the dirty ones with it. He hurriedly thought of a handful of other things he could do to busy himself until they came back.

A glance at his watch told him two hours and twenty-seven minutes had passed since Colonel Hogan and LeBeau had gone off on their little "adventure." Crossing his arms somewhat uncertainly, he decided that, if he hadn't heard anything from them in thirty-five—no, forty—more minutes, he would consider breaking the colonel's orders and going to rescue them. _But surely they'll be back by then, right?_ Kinch tried in vain to reassure himself. _They know what they're doing. . ._

~\\*/~

"Come on, Carter. Help me get them up." Hogan lifted LeBeau into a sitting position and leaned him against a tree.

Carter complied, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he spoke up. "Colonel? What if we . . . borrowed a car? From the road, I mean. Surely no car would refuse to stop with you in your Gestapo uniform . . . and we really need to get Newkirk back quickly. I don't know how much longer he can be in the cold."

Hogan bit his lip, mulling it over. "You know what, Carter? That sounds like it might actually work."

Carter's eyes lit up. "Really? Well, I was just thinking about how important it is that we get him back to camp soon, and how it'd be really nice if we didn't have to walk the whole way while holding him and all. You think it could work, boy? Uh, I mean sir."

Hogan chuckled at Carter's obvious excitement. "Yeah, I think it could. Follow me. We're not far out from the road." The colonel slung an arm around Newkirk's shoulder and pulled an arm around his own. Once Carter had gotten LeBeau onto his back, the two set off. Hogan sneaked a peek at his limping sergeant. _Carter's right,_ he mused. _We can't let Newkirk be in this blizzard any longer than we have to._

When they reached the road, Carter and Colonel Hogan set down their charges. LeBeau stirred, beginning to return to consciousness. He moaned softly.

Hogan whipped his head around and motioned for Carter to quiet the Frenchman. Soon, the sounds of a car passing by could be heard. "Carter, come here."

They stood by the road, their black-and-red uniforms a startling contrast to the white powder falling from the sky. The car screeched to a halt at the sight of the two imposing Gestapo officers waving them down. A car door opened, and a man with the attire of a _Feldwebel_ stepped out, snapping a salute at the two men. Trembling, he stated his name and asked, "How may I be of service to you gentlemen? I am on my way to bring _Oberleutnant_ von Hohenheim to a meeting with the Kommandant of Stalag X."

Hogan nodded, privately wishing he and LeBeau had chosen higher-ranking uniforms to wear. No matter. He would just fake confidence until he got his way. That was usually how it worked, anyway. He opened his mouth to speak and froze when another voice came his way.

"We demand the use of your car, _Feldwebel_." When the German did not jump to obey his command, Carter barked, "Immediately, I say! Would you keep me, _Oberst_ Carterhoff of the Gestapo, waiting?! _General_ Burkhalter is awaiting my presence at a meeting of the highest importance in but a few minutes. The fate of the Third Reich rests upon your decision."

Hogan muttered, "No pressure. Come on. You wouldn't want to keep the General waiting, would you? My cousin did once, and . . . let's just say he got a vacation far sooner than he'd hoped for."

The _Feldwebel_ gulped. "But . . . but what about _Oberleutnant_ von Hohenheim? He needs to get to his meeting. If he does not get there on time, it would be worth my life!"

"You imbecilic buffoon! _General_ Burkhalter will be accompanied by _Reichsmarschall_ Goering! Your officer's little tea party can wait. My meeting will determine the outcome of the entire war!"

Carter's eyes seemed to light up at the speech, similar in an eerie way to his mannerisms when he had played the part of Hitler. Hogan groaned to himself. _Just a bit too much over-the-top, Carter. You might want to tone it down._ Resisting the urge to facepalm, he grunted, "As we have said, it would be better for you if you surrendered your car to us."

The German looked as if he would refuse once more. He was the dedicated sort, it seemed. Still, there had to be some way to pressure him.

Just as Hogan opened his mouth to somehow coerce him, a voice from inside the car shouted, "Schneider, what on earth is taking so long?! I told you—"

"Ah, would this be the good _Oberleutnant_ you mentioned earlier?" Carter sneered. As the man emerged from his vehicle, Carter scoffed, _"Herr Oberleutnant,_ you should train your men better! He refused to hand over the car to me. I have urgent matters to discuss with _General_ Burkhalter and _Reichsmarschall_ Goering! Would you like to be the reason for the failure of the war effort?" With every word, Carter's almost patronizing tone had become progressively shriller and more pointed.

The German gulped almost imperceptibly. He straightened his back and with difficulty declared, "As the Gestapo wishes. You shall have our car. However, I demand that you be the one to call Kommandant Schettler and explain why I will not be attending his meeting on time."

Frowning slightly, Carter seemed to weigh the statement. At length, he shrugged. "Very well. I will concede but only to show you that the Gestapo can be . . . generous." He smiled then, and it was such an unnerving expression that Colonel Hogan himself was disturbed.

 _I really am glad that he's on our side,_ the colonel thought privately. Out loud he said, "Now that that's settled, I'll get the car ready for you, sir." He gave Carter a look, hoping desperately that the blond would understand. While it was true that Hogan trusted his men implicitly, he couldn't shake the nervousness he'd been plagued with for the whole mission. He knew he wouldn't be able to truly rest until he and his men were safe at the stalag. The thought struck him as amusing, and he laughed to himself, _Safe at a prisoner of war camp! Who would've thought it?_

He smiled when Carter began to distract the men with a well-placed rant about something or other. It was obvious that the man had understood the silent order. Resisting the urge to shake his head, Hogan instead headed back to the safety of the trees, intent on helping to get LeBeau and Newkirk into the car. With any luck, they would escape quickly and be back to the stalag within the hour! Of course, luck hated them at the moment. Still, that was no reason to believe that it wouldn't be on their side once more, right? Colonel Hogan hated that he still entertained a smidgen of doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! I'm posting this right before school starts today. :3 Enjoy! :D I'll try to get another one up soon. As nice as it would've been to be able to post it earlier, life got in the way. . .
> 
> (As a side note, I really like saying the word "feldwebel" . . .)
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	8. Chapter 8

"You mean to tell me you let them get away?! _Dummköpfe!"_ _Major_ Weiß demanded, disgusted at the incompetence of his subordinates.

 _Gefreiter_ Gilbert Schäfer and _Obersoldat_ Heinrich Beilschmidt trembled at the sheer fury in their commanding officer's tone. Hating himself for what he was about to say, Schäfer finally found his voice and managed to squeak, _"Herr Major_ , we searched the whole forest three times! We think they may have had accomplices . . . working w-with . . . them . . ." Courage evaporated, he found his words to slowly be fading at the expression overtaking his superior's face.

To save his friend, Beilschmidt piped up softly, "The man on duty at the time was _Leutnant_ Pfautz. . ."

"That idiot!" _Major_ Weiß snarled, turning. "Don't get any ideas, you two. You're not off the hook yet. However, I must find Pfautz and get an explanation for all this."

As the man walked away, Beilschmidt and Schäfer gulped and nodded so hard that they privately supposed their heads would fall off. When at last they were alone, Schäfer turned to his tall friend. "I thought he would have us shot on the spot. . ." In keeping with his unsteady tone, he looked to be mere seconds away from fainting.

Beilschmidt was no better. He found his way to a seat, not trusting his legs to hold him any longer. _"Ja._ And here I was so sure that fighting in the war would be a glorious thing, something to tell my children one day." He paused then, and a strange look overtook his face. "Poor Pfautz."

Schäfer slumped his shoulders. "I pity him, but I'm so glad not to be taking his place. What would happen to my Gretchen?"

Amused, Beilschmidt patted him on the shoulder. "Gilbert, it will be all right. You are not married to her yet. If you die, she could have her pick of any man!"

Schäfer's look was positively scathing. "And is that supposed to cheer me up? I proposed to her because _I_ want to be the one to marry her!"

Beilschmidt shrugged and held up his hands in submission. "All I'm saying is that someone would be able to care for her, especially since she has not been married and has no children to care for."

"If you're done gossiping like a _hausfrau_ would, I suggest you turn your attention to me instead!" a sharp voice stated, cutting through the comforting banter of the two Germans.

They immediately stood at attention, saluting as quickly as they could without appearing sloppy. Schäfer blinked in surprise to see his commanding officer in the room again. _"Herr Major, was ist los?"_ Resisting the urge to bite his lip, he thought, _What is wrong, indeed? You just left . . ._

"I would like to introduce you to _Major_ Hochstetter of the Gestapo. He has some questions he'd like to ask you. Be sure to answer _all_ of them. Tell him everything." The threatening tone did not escape Schäfer. There would be consequences if they did not corporate. Sadly, Beilschmidt only seemed a little bit worried. Then again, he still wasn't used to reading in between the lines. At least they'd be able to be together while this Hochstetter questioned them, right?

 _"Sehr_ _gut._ We shall start with the taller one." Hochstetter glared at Beilschmidt.

Schäfer couldn't help but notice the terror in his friend's eyes. The Gestapo tended to have that kind of effect on a person. He squeezed Beilschmidt's shoulder and tried to sound comforting. "Don't worry. I'll be next."

"Enough!" Hochstetter snarled. "You, come with me!"

With a glance at Schäfer, Beilschmidt followed the Gestapo _major._ The giant of a man seemed to dwarf Hochstetter. Schäfer couldn't help but think, _Be safe, Heinrich. . ._

~\\*/~

Colonel Hogan shifted his gaze to the two of his men occupying the back seat. Since Carter and Newkirk were the injured ones, he had decided that they would need the extra room to stretch out and rest. He smiled slightly.

Although they had only been driving for about ten minutes, the passengers had already gotten rather comfortable. Eyes closed in sleep, Carter's head rested on his hand. As Hogan watched, Carter slowly listed to the side until he was leaning against the car door. On his shoulder lay Newkirk's head. The Englishman was slumped against Carter's left side, body limp. Their shivering seemed to have ceased for the moment.

 _I guess they could use the rest. I'm sure glad to have them back safe and sound._ Colonel Hogan stopped and chided himself. _They're not safe yet. We still have—_ He glanced at his watch— _an hour and twenty-one minutes left till we get back to camp, longer if the ice slows us down. We'll make it. Those Germans sure won't, though,_ he chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny, _colonel?"_ LeBeau asked softly, eyes never leaving the icy roads ahead.

Hogan shook his head. "I was just thinking of the Germans we stole the car from. So much for getting to that 'all-important meeting' with Kommandant Schettler!"

LeBeau laughed at the thought, and the sound brightened Hogan's spirits. They were finally back on the way to camp. They could once more sleep in their beds, joke around with the men, pull the wool over the Germans' eyes, go to roll call— _Okay, so not everything about the stalag is perfect. Still, it's much better than it could be._

~\\*/~

LeBeau had observed the discourse between Hogan, Carter, and the German officers. He had chosen to stay by his unconscious friend, however, and to be ready to protect the man if necessary. This choice had not come without difficulty, though. He had needed to force himself to keep his eyes from wandering Peter's still figure in search of the blood staining the uniform.

As always, he was amazed at Carter's acting ability. That the usually meek and innocent man could transform himself into a seething general, a cowering private, or even the insane Fuhrer was always astounding to him. LeBeau had watched him expertly manipulate the men in the very language they had grown up speaking.

While the Carter had kept the officers busy, Hogan and LeBeau had maneuvered Newkirk into the backseat. LeBeau had climbed into the backseat as well to hide his presence from their enemies. One look from the colonel had been all Carter had needed to wrap up his performance and climb into the backseat as well.

Waving the _Feldwebel_ and the _Oberleutnant_ away with a cheeky "Have fun on your little walk, gentlemen. The war thanks you," Hogan had driven away. LeBeau had peeked out the window to see the bemused men look at each other and then begin to follow the road in the same direction as the car.

After they had driven for a few miles, the colonel had pulled over to let LeBeau become the chauffeur, choosing instead to sit in the passenger's seat. The next few minutes had continued in silence, with not a word from either Carter or Newkirk.

LeBeau sighed from his seat behind the wheel. He couldn't wait until this mission was complete, and they were asleep in their beds. He listened absently to Colonel Hogan giving him directions, musing, _I wonder if Kinch has coffee waiting for us. I could probably drink a pot and still fall asleep._ Indeed, the adrenaline would be wearing off soon, much like it had for Carter.

~\\*/~

"Are yo—are you all right, sir?" _Feldwebel_ Schneider cocked his head curiously. "You look a bit cold."

 _Oberleutnant_ von Hohenheim's eyes snapped up to meet his subordinate. He scoffed, "Cold? Cold?! No, I'm actually becoming a bit sweaty." His sarcastic comment was accompanied by a roll of his eyes.

 _"Ach! Mein Herr,_ if you're beginning to sweat, then you must be getting sick!" Schneider held a hand up to von Hohenheim's forehead nervously. "Do you have a fever?"

Finally, von Hohenheim had had enough. "Of _course_ I'm cold! It's snowing!" he shrieked. He slapped Schneider's hand out of the way, eyebrow twitching. The sheer incompetence! _Why must I be stuck in the snow with_ him _of all people?!_ _Why couldn't it have been_ Fraulein _Monika? Even_ Fraulein _Karin or her_ Schwester _Gisela would even be better than this complete fool!_ he grumbled inwardly.

Schneider gulped. "Oh. . . Well, I think the nearest town is about fifteen minutes by, uh, staff car. We should be there in . . . a bit."

In response, von Hohenheim growled.

~\\*/~

"As I said, _Major_ Weiß, I believe Papa Bear to be the culprit." Hochstetter sneered, "Sneaky and conniving though he is, I will outsmart him. He cannot stand before the great Gestapo! Give me your telephone at once! I have a call to make!"

Without so much as a word, Weiß busied himself with the bidding of the Gestapo _Major._ He held out the telephone to the man.

Hochstetter was in the process of grabbing it when he suddenly paused, eyes lighting up. A savage grin overtook his face. "No, wait. I must go to the stalag at once! If Klink finds out why I'm coming, that bumbling nincompoop will let it slip, and then Papa Bear will hide the evidence. Quick! Get my car ready to leave for departure!" Wringing his hands, he envisioned the look on Colonel Hogan's face when he was finally caught.

~\\*/~

"Carter. Carter, wake up."

Carter was roused from his sleep by a warm hand on his shoulder. He blinked in confusion and muttered an incredibly eloquent "Huh?" Rubbing his eyes, he tried to sit up. He was unable to, however, because of a weight on his side. He shot a glance to that part of his body to see Newkirk sprawled out across it. "W-What? Where are we?" His head was violently pounding, probably protesting the lack of sleep. Raising a hand to it, he lifted his eyes to find out who had awoken him.

Colonel Hogan smiled down at him. "We're almost to the camp. About ten or so minutes away, I'd say. We have to get out the car and walk. Don't worry. LeBeau will be your crutch."

Carter's brow furrowed. "Are we getting out to make sure no one thinks we're the ones who took the car? 'Cause it's not Klink's car, I mean." He shivered as a particularly strong blast of cold wind hit him.

The colonel laughed hollowly. "No. Of all things to happen, a tire blew." He shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

"Oh. So, what do we do about Newkirk? Is he okay?"

Hogan nodded. "He woke up about forty minutes after we got in the car. He seemed alert. You were right. He didn't recognize any of us. I think he's just asleep now, not unconscious." He reached in and gently tapped Newkirk on the face. "Newkirk, you need to wake up."

When there was no response, Carter tried his hand at it. "Peter, we have to get back to camp. Come on, buddy. Wake up." Newkirk's eyes twitched, and a finger moved slightly. Carter refused to leave it like that and persisted in his attempts. "Look, Wilson needs to check you out. We have to go back to the stalag to have him do that. Peter, you have to wake up now."

Finally, Newkirk's eyes opened. He yawned. "What is it, mate? D'you have to make such a racket? Let a bloke sleep, eh?" Almost as soon as consciousness had returned to him, he had begun to shiver.

He looked so tired and out of it that Carter smiled. "Yeah. Come on! We're almost to camp!"

Carter's enthusiasm seemed to be contagious, for Newkirk stretched and then sat up. "Oi!" He stared down at his leg as though it had done him some personal disservice by choosing to throb with the movement. He stayed in that position for a while, though Carter couldn't tell if it was a result of sleepiness, pain, or the concussion.

"Hey, do you remember the colonel?"

Carter's voice seemed to snap Newkirk out of his thoughts and back to the matter at hand. He peered up at Colonel Hogan curiously. After a moment, he shook his head slowly and stated, "I do have to say that you look a mite familiar, but I'll be snuffed if I know why. . ."

Before Colonel Hogan could reply, LeBeau's voice cut in. "I think we'd better be leaving soon. We don't know when someone could come along and find us."

Carter climbed out of the back seat and helped Newkirk to exit. He raised one of Newkirk's arms to be a help, but the colonel intercepted it.

With a glance at his men, Colonel Hogan nodded. "Okay, let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my kids are out at recess, and I've just enough time to post this. I usually go over it with a fine-toothed comb and re-read it many times over just to be safe. Even after I've posted it, I'll re-read it a few times to make sure it's grammatically correct. I don't use a beta 'cause I'm a perfectionist who loves English and enjoys proofing her own stories. (Some of my friends jokingly call me the Grammar Gestapo, but I promise that I'm not evil! :3) Anyway, all that to say that I think it's right, but I was super tired when I checked it over last night, and I also had a migraine. I've looked over it again, but I'll correct any errors I see later on in the day ('cause I won't be able to check it until after school).
> 
> Yay! Newkirk's awake again! :D And it seems Carter and Newkirk will be in the clear if they can just get back to the stalag before Hochstetter! :3
> 
> Edit: Okay, so I was able to look it over, and I think it's good now. :D
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	9. Chapter 9

Hochstetter reclined in the back seat of his staff car, completely at ease with the way with which it zipped around the icy corners. He had to catch Papa Bear if it was the last thing he did! There was no way Colonel Hogan would know that his days of trickery were at last almost to an end. Hochstetter congratulated himself on his brilliant idea of not calling ahead to the stalag. If he knew Papa Bear at all, then he knew that the best thing to have on his side (short of an impromptu firing squad) was the element of surprise. _Yes,_ he mused, _and I can exploit his weakness. He's soft for his men. . ._

~\\*/~

"Ar-are we almost there?" Carter's violent shivers were so intense that they almost caused LeBeau to lose his balance. After all, acting as a human crutch meant having enough balance for both the one assisting and the one being assisted. Carter was only vaguely aware of this, however. Instead, his vision was set solely on his blue-clad friend. "I don't know if I'll be able to help him get down the ladder. . ."

LeBeau muttered bitterly, "You won't be helping anyone get down the ladder with your ankle in that kind of shape."

Carter turned to him, a wounded expression on his face. "But I could at least try to catch him if he fell! He deserves that much. And, since I'm closer to his size, I'd be able to hold him up!" He realized belatedly that his innocent words had hit a nerve when LeBeau's face began to take on a red tint. The Frenchman was notorious for having a volatile temper and seemed moments from exploding. _But I just meant that I'd have a better chance of catching him than you would, and since we want him to get down safely. . ._ Carter bit his lip. He couldn't let LeBeau think he was intentionally calling him short. He had to remedy that.

Before either one of them could add on to the conversation, though, Colonel Hogan raised his voice, startling the semi-conscious Newkirk who was leaning on him. "All right, all right. Calm down. We'll be there soon." He shifted his burden and began trekking through the snow once more.

Carter hung his head. "Yes, sir." He looked at LeBeau and sighed, "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make you mad."

LeBeau, who had also slumped his shoulders at the reprimand, grumbled, "I am sorry as well."

"Good! Now that you two have made up—" The colonel chuckled at that— "I think I see the lights of the stalag. We're almost home!"

Carter's eyes lit up. "Really?! Boy, it feels like it's been months since we left! I bet Kinch is waiting for us by the ladder!" He paused just then as a thought occurred to him. "Colonel, we never did decide how to get Newkirk down the ladder. I mean, Kinch can't carry him down. It's too small. And he can't get down on his own."

Carter's words were quite true. While Newkirk had started the journey back to camp practically marching—Well, as much as an injured man could, anyway—he had begun to flag within minutes. Most of his energy had been sapped by the cold and his injuries. Even with the car ride, he was too exhausted to trudge through the snow for long. The sparkle Carter had previously seen in his friend's eyes had dimmed, though whether it was from pain, confusion, or fatigue (or a mixture of both), the American wasn't sure. Either way, Newkirk had sagged against his commanding officer about three minutes ago. He appeared to be only faintly aware of this, though, if his dazed look was anything to go by.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. It's not the only way into the stalag, you know." The colonel's tone was light, joking even, but Carter could tell there was an undercurrent of worry tainting the words.

Knowing that it was best to leave Hogan to plan and scheme, Carter turned his attention to LeBeau. Still a bit wary that the man would be holding resentment toward him, Carter debated what to say. His mouth twisted into a half-grin. "And to think we told the colonel we'd be able to handle a simple mission like this—joked about it, even. . ."

LeBeau scoffed, "It's all because you didn't have me on your mission! I'd certainly not have fouled things up!" While his words in and of themselves were harsh, his very timbre revealed his amusement. "Leaving it to an Englishman—and an American, no less!—Is it any wonder the mission was a bust?" He shook his head.

Carter smiled then, relief evident. _Seems like LeBeau's forgiven me._ He could feel some of the tension from the mission draining out of him with the action. "Well, if you'd tagged along, I'm not sure we'd have gotten into this mess." Nodding in a serious fashion, he added, "I mean, you could've been our chauffeur! Just think, being able to have a chauffeur! You know, I bet not even Hochstetter has a real chauffeur. He probably just has someone drive him around so he can look important. Y'know, to Klink and everybody else. . . Oh, wait. Isn't that what a real chauffeur does? I guess that means he probably _is_ important enough to have one . . ."

It should be noted that Carter was by nature a talkative person. However, he didn't always talk just because he wanted to say something. He had learned from experience that some of the men on the team (Newkirk and LeBeau, especially) needed something to take their minds off of things bothering them. Because of that, there were times he would talk for their sake. In response, Newkirk would usually berate him or smack him with his hat. LeBeau would either laugh his questions off or passionately defend his opinion. Whatever their reaction, his goal of distracting them usually worked pretty well. And if there was ever a need for them to take their minds off of something, it would be this mission. It was for this reason that Carter continued to ponder vocally the idea that Hochstetter just might be high enough in rank to have gained a chauffeur of his very own. If LeBeau's exclamation of _"Sacre chats!_ You think I'm only good enough to be a chauffeur?!" was any indication, all the talk seemed to be doing the trick.

_We'll all feel better once we're in the stalag again,_ Carter mused, mind imagined what would happen upon their return. By the time he caught up with the conversation again, he heard himself say, ". . . But I'm not sure I'd want to actually _be_ one. I mean, what if I have to drive for hours and end up missing my niece's birthday party?"

LeBeau snickered, "Your niece? You don't even have one!"

Despite the fact that he had no idea how the conversation had turned to nonexistent family members, Carter defended his statement. "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't have one then! I know my cousin Rita was really hoping for a baby soon. What with her husband Leroy off fighting, though, it probably won't happen for a while."

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "Sure."

~\\*/~

Colonel Hogan scanned the woods. Newkirk wouldn't be able to go underneath the fence in his condition. With a bum ankle, even Carter would struggle with it. An act like that required full use of one's legs in the event that he had to run. They could wait for the patrols to spot them, but that would sink any story Kinch would have had to concoct. The ladder was so narrow that it would only fit one man at once. There were a great many other ways into the camp, but not one of them would suit their purposes.

With a frown distorting his features, Colonel Hogan grunted. The only option would have to be the ladder. Newkirk had walked this far. He would just have to make it down the ladder on his own. Still, there was nothing that said people couldn't stand at the bottom just in case the half-alert corporal lost his footing.

That decided, he lifted his head and ordered, "LeBeau, go down the tunnel and wait with Kinch. We'll send Carter down the ladder first and then Newkirk."

" _D'accord!"_ LeBeau scampered down the ladder, shutting the stump-lid behind him.

Hogan waited exactly 2.53 seconds before turning to Carter and instructing him to follow.

Newkirk watched curiously as the blond obeyed. "Colonel," he murmured slowly, "why's Andrew going down a ruddy hole in the ground? Last I checked, he's not a gopher."

Hogan stifled a chuckle at Newkirk's innocuous words. "That's the way to our secret underground tunnel."

The younger man blinked slowly. When he did speak, his words were slow and ponderous. "Oh. Is it far down below us? I bet it'd take a long while to dig one what's actually worth its salt." Newkirk sighed then, growing weary from the conversation. "I don't suppose we could sit down, could we?"

The colonel shook his head. "Not until we make it inside. You first. Down the tunnel." He lifted the covering to the ladder, ushering the Englishman into the depths of the passageway.

~\\*/~

Peter took a few steps down the ladder, hissing in pain whenever he had to move his wounded leg. Thankfully, he only almost fell down the ladder three times. Each time, however, someone steadied him. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure how the person had known his foot would slip. _Well, no matter. At least we're . . . Where are we?_ The moment his foot hit the ground, Peter turned to see what all the ruckus was about this "tunnel" of theirs. He gazed about the room in wonder. In that instance, the fogginess that had clouded his mind began to clear, likely as a result of his awe. He blinked, trying to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Instead of seeing a narrow tunnel through which one would have to crawl, he found himself in a gigantic cavern carved into the earth. "Blimey! This ain't no bleeding bunny burrow you got here, mate!"

"I told you, didn't I? Only the best for Stalag XIII!" a familiar voice chimed in from Peter's right. He whipped around to see Andrew standing there. The American was sporting a grin so wide that his eyes crinkled. "Peter, we made it back!"

Before Peter could process what was happening, he found himself enveloped in a firm hug. He opened his mouth to protest—which, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to him to be the correct response—but yawned instead. The weariness he had felt before hit him all at once. He found he was unable to keep his eyes open much longer. With a sigh, he melted into the sweet embrace of sleep.

~\\*/~

Carter gasped, "Colonel! Colonel, something's happened to Newkirk!" In his arms was slumped a limp Newkirk. "He was just standing, and then he wasn't!"

"Kinch!" Colonel Hogan barked, "get Wilson!"

The sergeant dashed off to do his commanding officer's bidding.

After they had gotten Newkirk settled on the spare cot, Carter turned to face Hogan. "Will he be okay, Colonel? He lost a lot of blood. . ." Carter fidgeted with the hem of his Gestapo uniform. "He just sort of . . . well, dropped, almost."

Hogan nodded. "I'm sure he'll be fine. LeBeau, go make up the bottom bunk in my room for Newkirk. We'll need someplace to put him until he recovers." In truth, he'd been thinking of a good excuse for Newkirk's bullet wound and concussion. He still hadn't figured out what to do about the amnesia, but Wilson would probably be able to help with that. Either way, having Wilson come would not only ensure his men's injuries would be treated, but it would provide a nice alibi should it come down to that.

Carter sat down on the edge of the cot to give his ankle a rest. Although the colonel was focusing on how to disguise Newkirk's wound as something else entirely, he tuned in to catch the tail end of Carter's rambling. "—ee whillickers, if I'd known we were going to get into this kind of trouble, I'd have at least brought a flashlight, or a crutch, or . . . a blanket." Carter shivered, which reminded Hogan that he'd forgotten about how long Carter had been in the cold. He was just about to have Carter go upstairs to change into warm clothes when he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him.

"Y-you—" Wilson gasped, out of breath— "You called?" Kinch stood behind him, stoic face revealing very little.

Hogan nodded. "Newkirk and Carter need a check-up."

"Yes, sir." A frown graced Wilson's features when he saw the pair. He knelt and began his examination of Newkirk, all the while keeping up idle chit chat. "How long has it been since they've been looked at? I've told you before that kids need check-ups frequently. . ."

"Well, that's why you're here, 'doctor.'" Colonel Hogan couldn't help but smile. He quipped, "Now, tell me. Do they get a sticker and a lollipop after this visit?"

Wilson chuckled, "It depends on if they're both good bo—" He paused, face blank. "This man's been shot!"

* * *

_So, this took longer than I'd hoped to post it. Honestly, last week was pretty busy. But you probably don't want to know about that. I did think it might interest you to read a deleted scene from before Newkirk makes it down the ladder. I cut it for many reasons (including but not limited to the following: these types of nightmares aren't typically my style of thing to write, Kinch would've gone to great lengths to stay awake, I wasn't happy with how it turned out, and it would've meant Kinch being wary of Carter for a bit). Still, I put it in here in case you do want to read it. Had it been included, it would've been shined, buffed, and polished to fit the story better._

Kinch had cleaned and organized the room more times than ever before. Now, sitting by the radio, he had to force his leg not to bounce. When the adrenaline wore off, he knew, he'd be hard-pressed to stay awake. But he wouldn't abandon his post there by the radio. Who knew but that they'd try to contact him soon?

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of the trapdoor to the ladder opening and closing. Immediately, he was on his feet, prepared for whomever might have stumbled upon the secret entrance into the intricate tunnel system underneath Stalag XIII. "Who is it?" he called.

"Oh, Kinch! Boy, am I glad to see you!" Carter limped toward him. "Don't worry. It's all fine."

Kinch nodded, dazed. "Uh, good. Good! That's good! Where are the others?" He peered behind his friend, hoping to catch a glimpse of the three.

Carter shrugged. "Somewhere behind me. I mean, after Newkirk got shot, there wasn't much reason to stay with him. Since the Germans were searching for us, I had to split. I mean, always better not to get caught, right?"

Kinch paused. The calm demeanor with which those words had been spoken sent chills down his spine. "Carter?"

The blond smiled then, and it was such a demented expression of the usually cheerful face that Kinch froze. "The colonel and LeBeau were out to rescue us, but they never showed. Patrols and all. Probably never made it halfway there. Too bad. I was looking forward to eating some of that bouillabaisse Louis always goes on about," he cackled flippanty, not one ounce of sadness in his face. "Guess it's just you and me, Kinch, right?" His eyes glinted with an almost predatory light.

Kinch looked on in horror. Who was this creature and what had become of Carter?

"Kinch? Kinch?" The feel of a hand at his shoulder jerked him back into consciousness. He sat up over the pile of bandages he'd been folding for what had seemed like the millionth time.

Startled, Kinch swatted away the hand. The innocent face of Carter stared back at him. "Kinch! Kinch! Oh, good! You're awake! I figured you'd be here. We're back, but Newkirk's wounded, and we can't get him down the ladder, so the colonel said you might be abl—"

Kinch blinked away the sleepiness. How had he fallen asleep? He had drunk at least a whole pot of coffee alone. What had Carter said? _Wait. Carter? Carter?!_ He scanned Carter's face warily and sighed when he saw no sign of the heartless shell of a human he had talked to before. "What did you say?"

"Come on! Newkirk got shot in the leg! We can't get him down the tunnel."

Without another hesitation, Kinch made for the ladder. It took much effort, but he was eventually able to get Newkirk into the tunnel. Once there, the Englishman wearily plopped down onto a nearby cot, thoroughly exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm, like, really eager to post this. While I did read through it more than once this morning, all the editing I did to it got deleted. :/ I think I fixed all the mistakes, but I'll go back through it after school and check again. My kids are about to come back from recess, so I've got to go. Enjoy! :D
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	10. Chapter 10

Wilson crouched by the bunk of his patient and began to wrap Newkirk's leg with a sterile bandage. He grimaced at the redness and swollenness exhibited by the display. _Definitely infected,_ he thought to himself ruefully. _Thankfully, it wasn't any worse. All that sweat and dirt must've gotten into the wound on their way back._ He glanced around at the faces of the men beside him, intent on telling them his prognosis. They all deserved to know.

Andrew Carter sat on the colonel's chair, staring at his shoes and his newly-wrapped ankle. "How is he, doc?" He looked up then, and the worry he had tried so carefully to hide—from Newkirk, from the others, from himself, even—was now so clearly visible that Wilson could feel his resolve shatter.

"It, uh . . . He should get better soon, Carter. He needs a lot of rest in order to heal." His words, cautiously chosen, were enough to banish that tinge of anxiety Carter had shown since coming back from the mission. As far as Wilson could tell, though, the tech sergeant didn't completely believe everything he'd said. Still, Wilson had decided that he'd not volunteer any more information until he could talk to Colonel Hogan alone.

Carter smiled, relieved. "Okay. How long do you think it'll be until he wakes up?"

Wilson shrugged. "With the concussion, it could be anywhere from minutes to hours. I do expect him to sleep for a while, though."

After nodding slowly, Carter left the room, Kinch not far behind him. When Carter returned, he was carrying his blanket from off his bunk. With a determined look on his face, he plopped down on the floor beside Newkirk. He blinked, apparently realizing he had forgotten something. "Colonel?"

Hogan leaned forward. "Yes, Carter?"

"C-can I keep him company? Make sure he's okay until roll call?" The blond almost seemed shy. "He doesn't remember any of you yet, and I think he'd like to recognize someone when he wakes up."

Colonel Hogan's mouth stretched into a wide smile. "Sure, you can. Just make sure that you get some sleep. Can't have you falling asleep during roll call."

"Yes, sir!" Carter wrapped his threadbare blanket around his slight frame, uniform shirt slightly visible through the holes.

Once the blond was settled, Wilson raised his hand to get the colonel's attention. He motioned to the other side of the room. After making his way there, he stated in a low voice, "I need to tell you the full extent of his injuries. The bullet went all the way through his leg, which is why it was bleeding so much. Although I did clean it out and bandage it, it's beginning to show signs of infection. Usually I would give him a shot of penicillin, but I just realized that we used up the last of it after that one mission a few weeks ago. I had planned to tell you after the mission, maybe ask you to request some from London, just in case we'd need some, but I caught that bug that was going around, remember? With all the craziness, I completely forgot. I'm sorry." Wilson resisted the urge to tilt his head downward like a penitent child. He was an adult—hang it all!—and he was going to act like one. "We don't have any more penicillin here. I don't suppose you would be able to . . . acquire some, would you, Colonel?"

Brow furrowed in thought, Hogan shook his head. "London owes us for that last mission. I'll get Kinch on that."

Kinch, who had just returned to the room with LeBeau in tow, lifted his head at the mention of his name. He raised an eyebrow in question.

With a look, Colonel Hogan caught Kinch's eye. He mouthed, "Penicillin. London."

Kinch nodded and made his way out of the room. For a moment, the room was silent. Carter sat by Newkirk's bunk, dead tired and yet unwilling to cease his vigil in favour of sleep. LeBeau took the spot on the colonel's chair that Carter had recently vacated.

Hogan quirked an eyebrow. "What else, Wilson?"

Wilson sighed. The truth was that he was stumped about the amnesia. "He needs to be awoken every hour on the hour to see that he doesn't slip into a coma. Ask him his name, his rank, his serial number, the date, where he is, things like that. . . I am, however, worried about his amnesia. It's a tricky thing. His memories might be restored by the time he wakes up next. It could be months before they come back. I hate to say it, but he may never regain them. The most we can do is let him rest, remind him of his past, and . . . well, pray, sir. There's nothing more that can be done."

Colonel Hogan's shoulders slumped. He appeared to be trying to compose himself, to push away the disappointment that had no doubt begun to creep into his mind. Wilson knew the feeling well. After a moment, Hogan lifted his head and visibly steeled himself. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, steady, as though almost nothing was amiss. "Anything else?"

"Well, he'll need a new pair of pants," Wilson joked halfheartedly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a lopsided grin. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "He has a slight fever, but the penicillin should take care of it. I want to let him rest, try to get some energy before the fever saps it all. After he wakes up, I'd like to examine him more thoroughly, see if he's remembered anything else. From what Carter said, he was out of it for most of the trip back. We'll see how his concussion's doing then."

Hogan nodded slowly. "Thanks, Wilson. I'll let you know when he wakes up."

Wilson glanced once at the bunk with his two patients. Newkirk was fast asleep, and from the looks of it, Carter wasn't too far behind him. "I'll be back after roll call to make sure the two of them are all right."

~\\*/~

For the third time in two minutes, Colonel Hogan stared at his watch. They had arrived at the camp shortly after 3. Well, he supposed it was actually closer to 3:30. Either way, with all that had gone on afterward, by the time Wilson had examined his two patients and Newkirk had been carried up to the colonel's room, a full thirty minutes had passed. Now that Wilson had examined Newkirk and Carter, he could at least put his mind at rest. And of course there would only be an hour or two till roll call.

He sighed. No matter. He had survived on much less sleep before. It wasn't as though he wanted to repeat that one day when the mission had caused him to get only forty-one blessed minutes of sleep, but at least he knew he could do it.

He gently shook LeBeau, who had fallen asleep in the chair, and murmured, "Go back and get some rest. You deserve it."

LeBeau blinked at him slowly. Just when Hogan was starting to think he might have to restate his order, the Frenchman nodded, saying, _"Mais oui, mon colonel,"_ before standing and practically stumbling out the room.

 _Now that that's done, I might just be able to snag about thirty minutes of rest before we have to wake up Newkirk. . ._ Colonel Hogan slumped into his chair, exhausted. He propped his head up on his hand. It had been a long and stressful day. Surely it wouldn't matter if he just closed his eyes until the thirty minutes were up, right? _What could it hurt?_

~\\*/~

As much as he tried to stop it, a sigh escaped Kinch's mouth. He had, on the spur of the moment, decided to stay in the camp for another two hours, torture though it had been. However, he was now thankful that he had chosen such a course of action. Had he been traipsing through the snow in search of his missing men, he wouldn't have been there when they got back.

He had been so close to missing them. He would've caused the whole operation to fail had he been caught. Why had this mission been so difficult for him? Waiting was something he was used to.

 _Ugh, why was I so worried? The colonel can usually trust me to be steady, not to act without thinking._ Rubbing a hand across his face as though to erase all the thoughts, Kinch stood. He was tired. They were all tired. They had been completing missions nonstop for two weeks. _Maybe that's why it hit me so hard. I hope London gives us a break soon. At least there's no roll call today. . ._

~\\*/~

LeBeau looked at his watch, letting a curse slip when he remembered it was too dark to tell time. No matter. It had to be time for him wake up Newkirk to ask him the questions.

He put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder and shook it slightly. There was no response. After another shake, he began to think that maybe Newkirk had fallen into a coma, just like Wilson had warned. But surely such a thing couldn't have happened in between the colonel's shift and his, right?

Just before he could truly panic, he heard a soft moan. "Whazzat? Andrew? Is that you?"

The familiar Cockney lilt, slurred though it was, did wonders for calming LeBeau's nerves. _"Non, mon pote. C'est moi, Louis."_

In the barest of light, LeBeau was able to see Newkirk's eyes widen. "What?! Who're yo—" He paused then, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Almost as soon as it appeared, however, it vanished again. Had LeBeau's eyes not finally adjusted to the dark, he would've missed the transformation. Newkirk glared at him, distrust written all over his face. Truthfully, his expression would've been more intimidating had he been able to focus his eyes on his target.

 _Quoi?! Peter, tu ne peux pas être sérieux! Je suis votre ami._ It took everything within him not to contest the account. Instead, he held up his hands in surrender. "I-I am one of your friends, one of André—Andrew's—too."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed warily. After a second, he paused and raised a hand to his head. "Well, then, is Andrew here? Where are we? What are we doing here? Are we still in the snow?"

In response, LeBeau gestured to the foot of the bunk where Carter sat, deeply asleep. His head leaned against the bunk, and the rest of him was curled up on the floor. To even make it to Newkirk's bunk, LeBeau had needed to step over a sleeping Carter while being quiet enough not to rouse the colonel. _Well, he remembers what happened, at least._ He said, "It's okay, Pierre. Don't worry about it. You're here in the stalag with us. Andrew brought you back to us." Even as he was talking, Peter's eyelids began to droop. It was then that LeBeau noticed the tiny spots of red high on his friend's cheekbones. "Pierre? Peter?"

Newkirk blinked slowly. "Eh? Sorry, mate. I'm—" He yawned—"right knackered. And what did you say your name was again?" But before LeBeau could answer, Newkirk's eyes shifted over to the corner of the room. "Now, I don't know what you're going on about, china plate, but I do know my onions when it comes to . . . well, using my special services, even at car boot sales and all that. Everyone says to be careful around such things, and no one's to half-inch even the one with the most padding in his pocket. Ha! Why, ol' Alfie was brilliant, he was! And you should've seen him in action . . ."

Confused and disturbed, LeBeau stared as Newkirk rambled on and on. "Newkirk are you feeling okay?"

Newkirk glanced up at him, eyes wide with curiosity. "What are you nattering on about, Mavis? Y'know, it's awfully late. I think I'm about to flake out." He yawned once more, lifting a hand to hold his head. "Why's my head hurt?"

LeBeau forced himself to smile. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words to say. He finally settled upon helping Newkirk lie down. The Cockney man had no more put his head on the pillow (a luxury afforded only to officers) before he had fallen asleep. _Sacre chats! I have to tell_ Colonel _Hogan about this,_ LeBeau thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter should be about good. :D Hope you enjoy it! Um, I'm not French, nor am I good with French, although I do dabble in languages for fun. French just isn't one that I've put much time into. If it's wrong, please tell me. Google Translate is hardly ever accurate, in my experience. So, yeah. .
> 
> Poor feverish Newkirk! I'm so evil. :3 (Special thanks to Ponchygirl, by the way, for letting my ramble on about this story and my ideas for it. Ponchy, you're quite good for bouncing ideas off of!) 
> 
> Well, I must be off. Auf Weidersehen! :3
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	11. Chapter 11

The sound of dogs barking startled Kinch from sleep. He shot up out of bed, wondering at what might have disturbed them. Spending so much time listening at the radio had sharpened his already keen hearing. Even if that hadn't been the case, the dogs were so loud that they could easily be heard across the stalag. Since they were usually rather docile and quiet at this time of night, whatever had disturbed them must be important.

After peeking out the window, he dashed over to the colonel's room and flicked on the light. "Colonel, someone's here!"

Colonel Hogan stood, LeBeau at his side. "It's too late for Burkhalter. . . Wonder who it is. . ." He tossed a blanket over Newkirk and shook Carter awake. "We'll listen in on whatever he has to say to Klink." He pulled out the coffeepot that they had rigged to be a listening post.

"But, Colonel, won't Klink be in his quarters?" Kinch supplied.

Hogan groaned and dragged a hand across his face. It must've been the sleep deprivation talking, Kinch decided. The colonel tugged on his coat. "I'll be right back, then. Time to pay the ol' Bald Eagle a visit."

Carter yawned, stretching his arms out wide. With his ruffled hair and droopy eyes, he looked the very picture of a child awoken during nap time. "Boy, do you think someone saw us come back?"

Colonel Hogan shrugged. "I'm not sure. We'll find out either way." With that, he left the room.

Carter's gaze landed on his immobile friend. "I sure hope he'll be okay."

Unsure whether Carter was referring to Hogan or Newkirk, Kinch merely shrugged. "It'll turn out all right." He knew that wasn't a promise he could rightfully make. They all knew. There was absolutely no way he'd be able to predict what the future would hold for them, especially if this man was here to cause trouble. Still, it seemed like the right thing to say. "Well, we'd better prepare." He froze, a memory making its way back to him. "I told Schultz the colonel and Newkirk were sick! I have to keep that story up, or our alibi goes out the window!" After grabbing his coat, he ran out the door. He was in such a hurry that he didn't even bother to make use of the object in his hands.

~\\*/~

Colonel Hogan strolled over to the _Kommandantur_ in a way that he was hoping would appear nonchalant should he catch the eye of any guards. He had just flung open the door to the Kommandant's quarters when Kinch appeared at his side. The man was clutching his coat, chest heaving. After being given a look by his superior officer, Kinch put on the article of clothing.

"What is the meaning of this?! What is this man doing here?!" Hochstetter snarled. He had been in the middle of lecturing Klink on how the Gestapo could do anything it deemed necessary (even sneaking into camp and interrogating prisoners, if Hogan's guess was any good). Hogan had based his theory on the man's outstretched finger and outraged expression. _Does it count if he always looks majorly upset?_ he thought absently. Shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought, he stated, "Colonel Klink, this is against the Geneva Convention! Why, you know better than th—"

Before he could continue, Kinch cut him off. "I'm so sorry, Kommandant. The colonel's still not quite over his delirium."

Klink, whose expression of confusion mirrored Hogan's, could only grunt a questioning "Huh?" in response. "Delirium?"

Hogan's mind was whirring. Eventually, he decided that Kinch must've spun some sort of tale during his absence. But he had to proceed with caution. If he said anything out of line during this conversation, Klink might take notice.

Kinch nodded. "You'll remember, sir, that I told Sergeant Schultz earlier that our cabin was contaminated with a virus? Well, sir, Colonel Hogan and Newkirk have the worst of it right now. Carter's close behind. Anything he says might not make sense." He discretely shot Hogan a look.

The colonel's eyes flickered with understanding. He stumbled and nodded slowly. "I do have to say that—"

Klink waved a hand dismissively. "Be quiet, Hogan. You're too sick to know what's going on. And why are you outside the cabin anyway?"

"No, let him speak," Hochstetter surprised them all by saying. "Hogan, what were you up to tonight?" Had the Americans not known better, they almost might've been convinced he truly cared.

Colonel Hogan grinned. "I'm glad you asked! You see, it was all Olsen's idea. He even brought what we needed for it. Smith, Jameson, and Jones went along with it, of course, but you know how they are. . ."

"Get to the point!" Hochstetter ground out, teeth clenched in irritation.

Hogan shrugged. "Well, it was a tough fight. I only just barely won to Olsen, and Jones was so close to beating Jameson. Oh, and there was that hand I was dealt. If I'd have been given an ace of hearts instead of a jack of spades, there's no way I'd have won." _Delirious, eh? I'll give them delirious. . ._ He cleared his throat, eyes wide. "And then the wolves came! Oh, we tried to fight them off. Callaghan and Murdoch were the first to go. Pevensie was next. Well, not the next to be taken by wolves. That was Mason. Still, the poisonous mushrooms were what got poor little Pevensie. And to think, what would've you have done if you were me, Major? Your men dying, and you can't help it because you've got a dentist's appointment? Naturally, I felt like a bad commanding officer. I'm sure you'd have felt the same way if you were in my shoes. Hey, what size shoe _do_ you wea—"

"Enough! Hogan, were you in the town of Dusseldorf tonight?"

Klink's eyes widened. "Oh, no, sir!" he twittered. "He could not have been anywhere near there! We've never had an escape here at Stalag XIII. Besides, I had a surprise roll call tonight. Everyone was here. . ."

Hochstetter shot him a withering glare.

Klink sort of shriveled, eyes flicking down at his shoes. ". . . But if you must ask him questions, then who am I to get in the way?" he murmured demurely.

Colonel Hogan could hardly resist gasping, "But, Kommandant! Don't you even care about us anymore?!" He appeared genuinely hurt. "We believe in you— _I_ believe in you!—and you'd throw it away just to swim upstream with the other salmon, dodging the occasional barracuda or piranha? What does that say about you? What does that say about your tendency to eat fancy tuna or to wear silk cravats? Isn't it cannibalism when a fish eats another fish? We're your prisoners. No one can question us without your permission, not even Tommy Dorsey or Betty Grable." After a moment, he sighed, "Although I wouldn't mind her asking us questions. A little champagne, a dimly-lit room, a pan flute, a satyr . . ." He allowed himself to trail off, hoping that sounded crazy enough to continue to façade of a delirious man but still sober enough to remind Klink that he didn't have to let the Gestapo run all over him.

"Klink, are you going to let this man talk to me like that?" Hochstetter was seething. Hogan could practically see steam come out of his ears.

"Y-yes. Yes, of course, _Herr Major."_ He paused and realized what he'd said. "I mean, no, of course not!" He turned to Hogan and whispered, "Even though you're sick, you can't say things like that, especially not to him! Oh, what am I saying? You probably don't understand me, anyway." His gaze shifted to Hochstetter."I wa—I was only trying to say earlier that there was no way Colonel Hogan could've been missing. Everyone was counted as present during the surprise roll call tonight. Schultz counted twice!" After a moment, he seemed to regain some of his courage and squared his shoulders somewhat.

"And is that supposed to make me feel better?!" Hochstetter hissed. "That buffoon couldn't count anything higher than he has fingers!" He scowled.

Schultz, who to this point had kept his silence in the hopes that it would not spark the Gestapo officer's ire, opened and closed his mouth a few times. When he had finally gathered enough confidence to speak, he began to defend himself. "I counted them all, _Herr Major!_ There was not _one_ man missing!"

Amused, Hogan scoffed inwardly, _No, Schultz. Not one. Two, three, maybe four, but certainly not one. Well, I suppose it's time to play up the act._ He clutched his head and fell to the floor, coughing.

Kinch leapt forward, crying out, "Kommandant, he's really not well. May I take him back now?"

" _Ja, und_ I would like to go with them. If there really is this virus you mention, I want to see it for myself." Hochstetter lifted a hand to stroke his chin, a smirk growing on his face.

Colonel Hogan could practically hear his thoughts. _"Those Dummköpfe surely don't expect me to walk into the barracks! I'll catch them off guard and finally capture Papa Bear," . . . or something like that._ He resisted the urge to chuckle, instead groaning as if in pain.

Klink was bordering on panic. _"Major_ Hochstetter, we think the virus may be contagious. Surely you wouldn't want to infect yourself with whatever it is that they have . . ." His voice trembled in fear.

"Silence! I said I will see their barracks, and I _will_ see them!" Hochstetter pointed a finger at Kinch, "Take me there! With Papa Bear incapacitated, you and the rest of the men will be helpless!" That last bit was muttered underneath his breath, but Hogan heard it all the same. He forced himself to become limp.

"Kommandant, can we please take the colonel back to the cabin?" Ever the rational one, Kinch brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. _"Major_ Hochstetter, if you are coming back with us, can you at least help a little bit? The colonel's a bit heavy."

Hochstetter grumbled at that. The very idea of an American prisoner ordering him around no doubt caused him to balk. Eventually, the man called for Schultz to help Kinch transport the colonel to his bed. "Don't follow us, Klink!" he hissed.

As he was carried back, Colonel Hogan discovered that pretending to be unconscious was entertaining . . . and also nerve-wracking. No matter how strong his façade of calmness, his mind was constantly whirring. Even now, he was thinking of what to do should Hochstetter fail to be convinced.

~\\*/~

From his perch on Colonel Hogan's bunk, Carter watched as the men hurried around the room, throwing threadbare blankets over those "sick" soldiers. He thought it rather amusing, to be honest. After a moment, he laid down and pulled up the colonel's blanket. It would be better for his cover if he pretended that he were asleep. _That way, I can't mess it all up by accident._ Despite all the hustle and bustle and the conscious thought that Hochstetter was likely on his way to see them, Carter found his eyes slipping closed.

He awoke to the light being turned on in the room. He blinked and then froze. Hochstetter stood in the door, a murderous glare in his eyes.

Carter could feel his heart leap into his throat. Eyes wide, he started to sit up. At the last second, he remembered that he was supposed to be sick. He forced himself to start coughing. "Ma—" He paused to cough two more times— _"Major,_ what brings you here?"

Instead of answering, Hochstetter spun on his heel. He called out to another, "Why is this man in Hogan's room? Why are you not putting him in here?"

Before Carter could come up with an excuse, Kinch's steady voice cut it. "We thought he was getting better. Since Carter seemed to be getting worse, we put him in the colonel's room."

Hochstetter turned and scowled. "And what if these men are merely pretending to be sick?" He leaned down and extended a hand toward Newkirk's forehead. The moment it came in contact with the Englishman's exposed skin, he jerked it back as though he had been burned. His eyes darkened at the realization that this man was truly ill. Straightening, he met Carter's eyes. "Come here," he beckoned. "Let me feel your forehead."

Carter's mind raced. Should he obey? The _Major_ would no doubt find that he had no fever. But refusing to comply would merely serve to make the German more suspicious. _Maybe the blanket made my head a bit hotter than normal._ The thought was ludicrous. These blankets could barely keep in heat, let alone create more. However, he thought it in his best interests to obey the man. Before Carter could do anything, though, Kinch appeared in the doorway.

"Carter, how are you feeling?"

Carter almost sighed in relief. _Leave it to Kinch to rescue me!_ _Now, what can I say that sounds crazy?_ "Boy, I'm not sure. Mom, did you make any more of that chicken soup?" He blinked innocently and yawned.

Kinch merely smiled in response. "He's been like this for an hour," he whispered conspiratorially to Hochstetter. "He thinks Newkirk's his cousin and that I'm his mother." Kinch punctuated these words with a roll of his eyes. "If it makes you feel better, Daley thinks LeBeau's his dog."

Just when Carter was beginning to think that they were laying it on a little too thick, Newkirk moaned. The blond just barely managed not to call out his friend's name in jubilation. Instead, he peered down to the young man in the bunk below.

"Andrew? Izzat you?" Newkirk's words were slurred with exhaustion. He blinked his eyes in an attempt to focus them. "But I thought you were . . . pretending to be that bleeding, pompous toff . . ."

"Toff?" Hochstetter blinked. After a moment, his eyes grew large. He exclaimed, "Aha! Pretending to be a German officer? That is treason and reason for me to take him back with me!"

_No, Peter! Don't talk about that!_ Carter knew he had to speak up. "Look, Peter, just 'cause I put on Grandpa's shirt that one time—You always bring that up, you know? I mean, he is pretty stubborn, but he's not really pompous."

Newkirk's brow furrowed. "But I thought you fell?"

"Of course I fell! He was so much bigger than we were at the time! You remember how he liked to wear those long shirts around the house at night?" When there was no response, he started to fret. _Wait. What if this play-acting does something to mess up his memory more?_

At that moment, however, Newkirk's eyes flickered with a sense of familiarity. "Come now, I've told you before that real men wear nightshirts, _not_ ruddy dresses, to bed."

Hochstetter began to realize that these two weren't talking about impersonating German officers. He ground out, "Fine. But there is more to this than you are letting on."

As he turned to go, Newkirk mumbled, "More? More tea? I'd like more. . ."

Carter stifled at giggle at the way Hochstetter stomped off. Despite the joviality he felt from confusing the German _Major,_ he couldn't quite staunch the worry that was creeping up again. Would Newkirk be all right?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you at the next chapter! :D
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	12. Chapter 12

Kommandant Klink stood before his portly sergeant. "So, you are telling me that there was an 'airborne virus' in _Barracke_ 2, and you did not even check to see that the men were all there?"

"Kommandant Klink, the men looked awful! There was no way that they could have been pretending. I was going to tell you earlier, but I did not think you would want . . . to be . . . disturbed. . ." Schultz's words trailed off at the expression overtaking Klink's face.

The Kommandant clenched his fist, but it denoted his worry rather than his anger. He was certain that Hogan couldn't be up to anything. There was no way. Klink was the toughest Kommandant of any Prisoner of War camp in all of Germany. Surely the very thought that Hogan could sneak something—anything whatsoever!—past him was inconceivable!

But what if Hochstetter found something? He was fiendishly clever. If Klink were being truly honest with himself, he wondered that the two of them were even on the same side of the war. After all, Klink saw himself as fair and impartial, a good leader but concerned with the lives of those underneath him. Sure, he wanted the best for himself. It was only natural! Who wouldn't? But that didn't mean he was as cruel a taskmaster as Hochstetter. In fact, just last week, he had heard that one of the men in Hochstetter's command had lost his life after being force—

A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts. He rushed over to answer it, overcome with the (terrifying) thought that it might be the _Major_ himself. "Yes? What is it, _Herr Major?"_

Instead of a seething, short Gestapo man, Corporal Langenscheidt stood at the door. _"Herr_ Kommandant? _Major Hochstetter_ has left the camp. He left alone."

Klink couldn't help but sigh. Relieved, he sank into the nearest chair. "And the prisoners?" He lifted his head wearily.

"Resting, sir," came the answer.

~\\*/~

An hour later, Sergeant Schultz opened the door to the barracks. He began his head count, speaking the words softly. " _Ein, Zwei, Drei, Vier,_ _Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht . . ."_ He paused, looking at the face of Hogan, who slept on Newkirk's bunk. He smiled fondly and lowered his tone so as not to wake the man. "Colonel Hogan, I am glad you and your men are safe, monkey business or not. . ."

If the colonel heard him, there was certainly no implication of that fact. He remained still, his quiet snores undisturbed. He seemed so at peace, especially considering the fact that he was seriously ill.

With a shake of his head, Schultz began counting once more. He couldn't resist peeking into the colonel's room to check on Carter and Newkirk. The sight of them both resting warmed his heart.

Carter was curled up on Colonel Hogan's bed, an arm dangling off the edge. Inches from his hand was the face of Newkirk, who was so still that he might have rivaled a statue. If it were not for the rise and fall of the Englishman's chest, the generously proportioned guard would have begun to worry. Neither were coughing— _but maybe it's because they are asleep?_ Schultz wondered.

Right as he decided to depart, he heard a weak voice murmuring colorful (if slightly incoherent) insults to "Krauts." He did not know why Newkirk was complaining but smiled anyway. With a jovial jiggle of his head, he turned to take his leave. Things would be able to return to normal soon.

~\\*/~

Consciousness returned to Colonel Hogan suddenly and all at once. He jerked into a sitting position, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong. He scanned the room with his gaze. All the men were sleeping in their bunks. His mind registered the soft sounds of men breathing. The sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the wall. He could hear the stomping of the guards outside. All of these were normal things. So why did he feel like something was off?

His scrutiny of the surrounding area came to an abrupt halt as he realized what that sense of wrongness was. _The light! It's never light out when we have roll call!_ He glanced at his watch, and his eyes fairly bulged from their sockets when he read the time. _10:06?! How did it get to be so late?_ If he were perfectly honest with himself, though, the extra sleep was much appreciated, even if it was unexpected.

A thought struck him then. He jumped from the bed and barged into his office, practically throwing the door off its hinges. To his relief, Carter was perched on the edge of Newkirk's bed, talking to him.

"So, Peter, do you know where you are?" Carter's voice was steady, even. Although he surely couldn't have missed hearing Hogan's spectacular entrance, he did not tear his eyes away from his injured friend. "You feelin' all right, buddy?"

Newkirk nodded, eyes heavy. After a moment, he blinked. When he opened his eyes, the man seemed sharper, more focused. "I'll be fine, mate. Just—" He yawned— "a tad bit knackered. Where did you say we were again? St—stali—stela—?"

"Stalag XIII," Carter supplied helpfully. His eyes were bright with happiness.

Newkirk nodded. "Right. The stalag, then? That's where we are?" He looked around as if trying to memorize the room. At length, he made to sit up, muttering, "Well, if we're to be of any use to the colonel, I guess we'd better get cracking."

Carter put up a hand to push Newkirk back down into a sitting position. "No, I don't think so. How's your leg feeling?"

The Englishman furrowed his brow and shifted his gaze to his wounded leg. "But I'm fine. . ." His face was a touch flushed and yet seemed pale against the dark blanket. "It doesn't hurt all that much, I'm sure." He attempted to lift his leg and promptly grimaced at the pain. "All right, so it hurts a bit," he conceded, "but that doesn't mean it won't get better. Tell me, how's that ankle of yours, anyway?"

Carter brightened. "Actually, I hardly feel it if it stays still! Funny how that works, isn't it?" He continued to chatter on cheerfully, confirming Colonel Hogan's theory that he was far more worried about his friend than he had let on.

Hogan leaned his weight against the doorjamb, content to watch his men. After a moment, he nodded. All seemed in order. _I wonder when London's sending the penicillin. Probably tonight._ He grunted, wishing he had stayed awake until he had received an answer. With that cheery thought, he left the room.

He found LeBeau stirring a simmering soup. The Frenchman crooned at it, pursing his lips. At the sound of his commanding officer approaching, he turned. _"_ _Mon colonel,_ how is Pierre?" Eyes wide, he began to fiddle with his fingers, a sure sign of his nervousness.

"Still alive and kicking. I've got to admit that I am a bit worried about the amnesia." Hogan paused to sniff LeBeau's concoction. A smile worked its way across his face. "I'm sure a few bites of this will cure him, though. Or maybe it'll bring back some of his fighting spirit! Who would've thought we'd miss his complaining and bickering?" he chuckled, eyes twinkling.

LeBeau shook his head. _"Non,_ he is English and therefore cannot appreciate it the way it deserves!" He tilted his head haughtily. With a laugh, the proud persona cracked, and he smirked. "The _soupe de nouilles au poulet_ is almost done. I shall see if he feels up to eating anything."

Colonel Hogan acknowledged this statement with a nod and made his way downstairs to talk with Kinch.

~\\*/~

"But, Peter, I'm not sure that—"

Peter interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "Listen here, mate, it's called a 'biscuit.' I may be missing a few memories here and there, but I do know what's the proper name for a sweet cracker."

Carter huffed, "But it's a cookie! Biscuits are what you butter. Crackers are the tasteless things you eat with cheese or soup. Cookies are sweet and taste amazing with milk!"

_"Non,_ you are both wrong. _C'est un gâteau."_ At that exact moment, a rather short man entered the room, holding a bowl of something he must've made. Face disfigured by a sneer, he spat, "Peasants." His mock-disgusted tone just barely balanced out the exaggerated facial expression.

Peter blinked, trying to mentally sort out who this person was. _I couldn't quite catch some of those words he said. It's as if he weren't even speaking ruddy English! But he looks a mite familiar. If I've seen him before, does that mean he was from my past? Or was it just . . . that I met him sometime after Carter—What_ did _happen? Did Carter find them? Did they find us? How did we get back here? I think . . . I think we must've go—_

The sound of the newcomer setting down the bowl tore Peter away from his thoughts. "Pierre, it is good to see you awake! Are you hungry?"

Peter stared at him, eyes wide. He couldn't remember the man's name, let alone recall if he were trustworthy. He chanced a quick glance at Andrew, only to find that the blond seemed perfectly at ease. Maybe they knew each other? _I think that rather confirms my theory. This bloke must be one from my past. But at the stalag? Andrew told me the names of the others, the ones what pull barmy stunts with us. So what's the name of this cheeky blighter? I've already met the colonel. What was his name again? Ho—Ho-something. Hogan! That's it. Hogan. That leaves . . . Kinchloe and L-LeBon? Was that it? No, that sounds off somehow._

Before Peter could ponder this more (and before the short man could ask him any more prying questions), the door to the room opened, and in entered the colonel himself. Unlike any other time Peter could vaguely remember speaking to him, the officer seemed irritated. He slammed the door, a scowl distorting his face.

The man’s eyes darted to the blond. “Carter, how’s your ankle feeling?”

Confused, Carter glanced down at his wrapped appendage. “I think it’s pretty okay. It hurts a little bit but not as bad since Wilson took care of it. Why, Colonel?”

Hogan grimaced. “We’ll need you to run a short errand for us. How good do you think you are at being a Kraut doctor?” His tone was short and clipped, an obvious indication (aside from the obvious visual signs) that he was upset.

Andrew’s brows furrowed, but he straightened his back. Almost as though he were becoming another person, his expressions and body language transformed until he seemed every bit a professional, cold and calculating. He spoke something in an odd tongue then, and Peter’s mind sluggishly provided him with the translation. _“Herr Doktor Carterbaum_ at your service, my good sir. How may I be of service?”

Colonel Hogan slapped him on the back. “Good job.”

Andrew smile, his eyes widening. With a shrug, he said, "You know, I was actually considering being a doctor at one point! It didn't work out, what with the war happening and all, but I still think it would've been a lot of fun to—"

Hogan's eyes snapped up to meet Andrew's. "Carter, London can't get us the penicillin until Tuesday." His words were deliberate and far more serious than the chemist's had been. "There's no way we can wait two whole days for it. Newkirk needs it as soon as possible. And the Underground's been down for the last week, even since that run in with the Gestapo—" He sighed— "The only place that would have a readily accessible stash would be the hospital. You'll pose as a doctor and steal some." His attention shifted to LeBeau. "Can you have him ready by the end of lunch? We'll send him out and have him back by evening roll call."

The shorter man—LeBeau?—seemed to think a moment. _"Oui._ It shall be as you say, _mon colonel."_

Newkirk blinked, thinking, _Here he goes again, spouting off nonsense! I wonder, do they put up with it for the sole reason that he's their friend? Is he all right in the head? And how can a city—London is a city, right?—send something to the colonel? It's not a person. Well, I expect it doesn't rightly matter. After all, Colonel Hogan said it wasn't going to work out, anyhow._ His head was beginning to hurt again. He lifted a hand to press against it, knowing the action was futile. He groaned, closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, the three men were turned to him. When had that happened? He could hear them speaking, and yet he couldn't decipher their words. He waited a moment, hoping that the time would allow his brain to catch up to the conversation. It must've been tired, for he had noticed such things happening recently.

Unfortunately, the waiting period did nothing to assist his brain along in the decryption of what they were saying to him. Whatever it was, was it important? For all he knew, they were merely attempting to use that gobbledygook from before. Gobbledygook? Was that the right word? _Poppycock? Balderdash? Waffle? No matter. It's all a bunch of rubbish._ He yawned.

That wound on his leg was really starting to ache. He was halfway tempted to rub it but just barely squashed down the urge in favour of letting out another jaw-cracking yawn. His eyes seemed to burn. Perhaps if he closed them for just a moment. . .

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this is a bit later than I try to post chapters. Sorry about that. I forgot to tell you that I was visiting my family for Thanksgiving! :D It was so amazing! I've missed them a lot. Anyway, I had most of this done before break, but the chapter wasn't quite right. It needed a bit of tweaking before it would be ready to post. To my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving (a day late)! To the rest of you, I hope you had a great day yesterday, too! :3
> 
> Anyway, I can't remember if it was a doctor or a brain surgeon that Carter wanted to be (I believe he mentioned it in that one episode where he tells the story of how he blew up the science lab in Rutherford B. Hayes Polytechnic High School, a story which always cracked me up! XD) Does anyone remember? I haven't been able to find the information, and my memory's unreliable. If you remember, I'd love to hear!
> 
> This is rather a long Author's Note. Oops. Well, before I head out, I wanted to tell you that this story is technically just a bit AU 'cause the others were aware of LeBeau's reaction to blood. To my admittedly spotty recollection, none of the other members of the team were aware of that until that skirmish with Danzig in season 6's "That's No Lady, That's My Spy!" episode. I've been meaning to mention it since, like, chapter 6.
> 
> Also, thank you to all of you who have reviewed, favorited, followed, or even read this story! It means the world to me! :D Enjoy! I’ll be back with the next chapter soon-ish!
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	13. Chapter 13

_“Herr Doktor Hasselhoff,_ the patient is waiting for you! Perhaps you didn’t know this, but you are to administer the anesthesia immediately and—”

 _Doktor_ Klaus Hasselhoff groaned. Many times he had wondered why she must be in possession of such a nasally voice. _It only serves to heighten the pain from my cephalgia,_ he grumbled inwardly. _“Ja, ja._ I read the report. _Krankenschwester_ Ursula, would you mind too terribly lowering your voice? It might disturb the patients.”

The _Krankenschwester_ looked at him strangely but complied, her voice the merest fraction of a percent softer than before. Gone, however, was the sickening sweetness which had oozed from her lips before. “And you are to show the new recruit around the building. I believe he became a doctor only two months ago . . . and I hear that he’s not been training for very long. You know, there’s only one reason someone would become a doctor without much training, and it simply _must_ be true because of the kind of family he comes from! _I_ think he was—”

 _“Krankenschwester,_ your job calls. I understand _my_ job and have been doing it for far longer than you have.” Hasselhoff ground out the words, raising a hand to rub his aching forehead.

Face expressing her disgust at his tone, she whirled and left. “Fine, but when he fails because he doesn’t know a scalpel from an endotracheal tube, it’ll be all your fault,” she spat.

He rolled his eyes. _I can’t figure her out! One minute she’s helpful, and the next minute she’s biting off my head! At least one good thing came from this. She’s going to be out of my hair for the next hour or so. . ._

~\\*/~

“How do I look, LeBeau?” Carter smiled then, effectively ruining the persona he had perfected earlier.

LeBeau shot him a look. “You’d look better if you’d stop moving around so much! How do you expect me to be able to finish sewing the collar when you won’t stay still?” he huffed.

“LeBeau, have you had any odd dreams recently?” The question was so completely unrelated to their previous conversation that LeBeau was momentarily unable to form a thought.

 _Where did that come from?_ Brow furrowed, the Frenchman responded, “No, I don’t think I have. Why?”

Carter opened his mouth as if to say something. After a second, however, he closed it, having thought better of his statement, apparently. Instead, he asked, “Do you think . . . Peter remembers things in dreams even though he lost his memory? He was talking in his sleep earlier, but it had all sorts of names I didn’t know, and . . . and I _know_ he’s not faking it. But does that mean his memory isn’t all the way gone? Maybe it’s just kind of locked up, kind of like how Klink locks up his cigars . . . only that doesn’t seem to work ‘cause Newkirk always gets them. But you know what I mean. What if his memories just have to be unlocked? I suppose that means we’d need the right kind of key. What kind of key could be used to unlock the brain? Maybe it’ll have to be something we say. Boy, it’d be awfully scary, I think, to lose your memories. What would you do without them?”

LeBeau merely shook his head. _That boy can speak a mile a minute! It’s almost impressive, really._ “André, the sooner we get Pierre the medicine, the sooner we can get him better. Now, you have your papers, _oui?_ And you remember the plan? _C’est bon!_ Then you should be all right. If I could go with you, I would. . . Perhaps you need a chauffeur?”

“No, it would raise suspicion to have him arrive with a chauffeur.” A new voice cut through the chatter. “Still, I don’t want you to go alone, especially with your ankle the way it is. I’ll join you. If there just so happens to be a patient yelling in the halls, that might make the new doctor lose concentration and ‘accidentally’ lose a bottle or two of penicillin.” Colonel Hogan stepped around the corner, dressed in civilian clothes.

Carter bit his lip nervously, looking for all the world as if he’d rather the mission were over and done with. Honestly, LeBeau couldn’t blame him. Far too many things had gone wrong lately. Who was to say more difficulties wouldn’t arise?

Carter appeared to be mulling the thought over. “But how do we know this patient will. . . Oh. Got’cha.” His self-deprecating half smile and barely perceptible shrug caught LeBeau’s attention.

He knew instantly that Carter was likely berating himself for his question, perhaps even for the results of the last mission. In reality, the possibility of losing Newkirk had hit them all rather hard. None of them were functioning the way they normally would.

 _It will all work out,_ he thought, _. . . or it will not, and that would be all the fault of the_ Boche. The latter he voiced, lifting his eyes to meet the blond’s own.

“LeBeau, how much longer until our doctor’s ready?”

Tying off a strand of thread, he responded, “I think he is done, _mon colonel.”_

~\\*/~

Shrugging on his white coverall, he strode down the hallway, eyes scanning the rooms. _209 . . . 210 . . . 211—Ah, yes! Room 212._

One the one bed lay a young girl no more than eight. Her eyes widening to the point that they looked almost owlish, she blinked at the sight of him. “Are you really that tall? I thought no one could be taller than _mein bruder.”_

 _Doktor_ Hasselhoff chuckled. Perhaps this day wouldn’t turn out so bad, after all. “ _Ja, und_ I am here to make your tummy feel better.” Smiling, he advanced toward the girl. “And how has it been feeling since the surgery?”

She clutched at it and moaned, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “I think it’s gotten better, but it still hurts bad.”

“Well, if you’ll let me take a look at it, we’ll see what we can do to fix it. You know, you are a very brave little girl. I bet your _Mutter_ will be so proud of you.”

 _“Ja! Mutti und Vati_ said that, if I’m a good girl the whole time I’m here, I’ll get to play with _mein Jüngerer Cousin_ on Saturday!”

 _Doktor_ Hasselhoff grinned. “And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it! Well, we’ll not disappoint them, then.” He inspected her wound and took her temperature.

 _“Herr Doktor_ Hasselhoff,” a familiar nasally voice cried, “how could you forget to bring the new _Doktor_ along with you while doing your rounds?” Had the sound of her voice not been so distinct, the sheer disdain in it would have made clear her identity.

He nodded stiffly, dreading turning around to face her. _“Danke, Krankenschwester._ I gather you have brought him with you?” He resolved not to face her until there was no other option. After all, she tended to darken his mood every time she came within a two-mile radius.

“ _Natürlich.”_ When it became apparent that the _Doktor_ had nothing more to say, she harumphed. Seconds later, a swish of her skirts told Hasselhoff that his rude colleague had departed.

That deduced, he turned to greet the newest member of the hospital staff. Upon pivoting, however, he blinked in surprise. While he had expected the recruit to be young, he had been quite unprepared for exactly how youthful this man seemed to be. The newcomer could not have been more than twenty-four years of age, and that number was likely a stretch. His eyes, however, radiated compassion and eagerness, and that, Hasselhoff supposed, was what mattered. At least _he_ would have a good bedside manner. _Perhaps if being a_ Doktor _does not work out, he could replace_ Krankenschwester _Ursula. . ._

Shaking his head as if to dismiss the thought, the _Doktor_ extended a hand toward the young man. “Nice to meet you. I’m _Doktor_ Klaus Hasselhoff.”

Practically buzzing with excitement, the recruit shook his hand. He beamed, saying, “Wow! It sure is nice to meet you! I’m _Doktor_ Dieter Carterbaum. Have you been working here as a _Doktor_ for long?”

Hasselhoff suppressed a grin at his companion’s eagerness. _Ah, I remember my first days of being a doctor! This little puppy’s so eager to please, eager to help._ Aloud he said, “Twenty years even. I gather you’re right out of medical school?”

Carterbaum clenched and unclenched his fists in anticipation. “You bet!” His eyes lit up at the thought. After a moment, he seemed to realize his unprofessional attitude and added sheepishly, “I mean, uh, yes, sir.”

 _“Sehr gut!_ We could use someone who so loves his profession. Well, let me show you around the _Krankenhaus.”_

~\\*/~

Behind them, Colonel Hogan meandered the halls. He had shed his civilian uniform and donned the garb of a doctor. By the time he had arrived (a few minutes later than Carter had), the waiting room had been too full for Hogan to be admitted any time in the near future. As a result, the plan had needed a bit of tweaking. _It just figures that today would go like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a full moon tonight,_ he thought wryly. He had to admit that his original plan had been full of holes, anyway. It certainly hadn’t been his best work.

He would pretend to be a doctor, then. As such, he could still create a distraction, even if he had to pretend a patient was dying. Besides, that would make it easier for Carter to grab the penicillin. _Plus, I’ll blend in easier._

He roamed the halls, looking for the perfect patient. He had purposely chosen to prowl the floor on which Carter would be making his rounds. Thankfully, the nurses had been more than happy to tell him where the new doctor would be.

In the corner of his eye, he noticed Carter kneel in the middle of the hallway. To anyone else who might be stalking the halls, it might appear that he was retying his shoelaces. The colonel knew better, though. It was the signal for which he’d been waiting, the one they had set up while planning the mission. He rushed into a room, took note of the sleeping patient and began to holler, _“Achtung! Achtung! Bitte helfen Sie! Schnell! Achtung!”_

Almost immediately he could hear the sound of pounding feet, indicating that doctors and nurses were on their way to help this poor patient. Soon, the room was full of medical staff. With a surreptitious glance at the hallway, he lost himself in the crowd. There was no doubt in his mind that his absence would not be missed.

~\\*/~

As he walked with _Doktor_ Hasselhoff, Carter tried not to grimace. Wilson had given him aspirin for the sprained ankle and had wrapped it rather tightly. Still, he couldn’t ignore how his ankle had begun to smart once more. Perhaps the sleep from the night before or even the adrenaline of the mission had dulled it up until now. As time passed, however, the aching turned into a throb, which eventually became a sharp pain that shot up his leg with every step. Mumbling some sort of apology under his breath, he dropped to one knee and adjusted his boot. His hope was that he would be able to tighten the laces around the swollen appendage enough offer support and relieve some of the pain.

Whatever excuse he must’ve used seemed to have appeased the _Doktor,_ for the older man merely gazed at him in pity. “How did you sprain your ankle?” Hasselhoff finally asked.

Carter shrugged. “I fell out of a tree while playing with _mein neffe.”_ With a chuckle, he expounded upon his story, “He was so worried that I’d broken something _und_ ran all the way to _mein Schwester_ , screaming that I was dying.”

The German shook his head in amusement. “Ah, the things we do for our family, no?”

Carter agreed, thinking, _You have no idea, pal._ After tightening his laces, he stood slowly and sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any aspirin I can take?”

“In a _Krankenhaus?_ Well, I don’t know. I might have to check.” The man winked. “The supply room likely has all the medicine you need.” He pointed to a room at the end of the hall and beckoned for the American to follow him.”

Carter had not taken more than three steps before a cry rang out. _“Achtung! Achtung! Bitte helfen Sie! Schnell! Achtung!”_

 _“Was?!”_ Hasselhoff pivoted and made for the noise, intent on helping fix whatever problem had arisen. “Come!” he barked.

Carter nodded. “Be right there!” He watched as the _Doktor_ nodded and then left. The American hesitated for but a moment, positive the cry for help was the colonel’s distraction. But why had it come so soon? He hadn’t yet reached the supply room, nor was he sure the penicillin would even be in the room at all! It was a relatively new drug. Surely, they would keep in under lock and key in the case of someone (such as himself) trying to steal it.

He shook his head. This was no time to think. He needed to act! With a glance in the direction of the commotion, he darted for the supply room. _Please be there! Please be there!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the wait. It was a crazy week. :/ Plus, I've had a migraine for the past few days. It finally let up shortly before this, so I decided to use the time to finish up my next chapter. :D Oh, we have Internet now! I can actually post during the weekend or at night! \O/ As a side note, I think that the word Krankenschwester is now one of my favourite German words. It's just a lot of fun to say! :3 Well, enjoy! (I do hope the German isn't butchered. . .)
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


	14. Chapter 14

Using a rag, LeBeau mopped up the sweat rolling down his patient's face. This was an impressive feat, considering the rather violent way Newkirk was tossing and turning, fully caught in the throes of a dangerously high fever. Quite frustrated at the fact that he could do little to quench the fever, LeBeau bent to pick up the blanket Newkirk had thrown off with his weak, jerky movements and began to wrap the Englishman once more. He finally realized that there was no way to keep the man covered short of holding him down by force.

LeBeau was certain he would not be strong enough to accomplish that (for, while he'd never admit it to the man's face, he wasn't quite able to beat Newkirk in that regard). Nevertheless, he resolved to do his best until Kinch returned from his mission of gathering fresh water cold enough to try to lower the fever.

When Kinch returned, he found the Frenchman leaning over Newkirk. His arms were outstretched, frantically keeping the Englishman's own down on the bunk. The fever had zapped Newkirk's strength, however, for he had barely enough to struggle with LeBeau. Eventually, Newkirk began to settle down once more. Hoping beyond hope that this meant the fever had receded somewhat, LeBeau sighed in relief and slumped into a nearby chair.

"I see you need backup."

LeBeau lifted his eyes, weary and worried as a result of the recent events. He knew that tone. There was no sarcasm, no derision, no disdain lacing Kinch's words. Rather, the man seemed to be asking after his welfare. LeBeau chanced one more glance at the still form of Newkirk before replying, _"Oui._ I do not know how high his temperature is right now, but it cannot be safe."

Kinch seemed to take this in stride, his face revealing no emotion. His voice, however, betrayed him by allowing the briefest hint of resignation to leak through. "If they don't come back in enough time. . ." He took a deep breath as if to restore control of his voice. "But they should be on their way back soon. In the meantime, all we can do is try to bring down his fever. Here—" He handed over a bowl filled with a mixture of water and half-melted snow— "This should help." His eyes drifted toward the Englishman who was once more beginning to shiver feverishly.

LeBeau snatched it gratefully and immediately began dabbing at Newkirk's forehead with it. He tried to ignore his friend's groaning, choosing instead to focus on getting his friend well once more. _"Pierre . . . Mon pote,_ please fight back. You cannot allow this to take you. Don't—" He cut himself off before allowing himself to say what was in his heart. Despite that, he could not stop his mind from crying out, _Don't leave me. You promised me all those years ago. . ._

Newkirk's only response to LeBeau's pleas was a pained grunt.

~\\*/~

Carter half dashed, half limped to the supply room. He had to work fast. Upon entering the room, he went from cabinet to cabinet, searching desperately for the penicillin. He froze every time he heard a nearby sound, frantically hoping that he would not get caught. _D-IX, Pervitin, Isophan, Eukodal . . . No, those aren't right. Morphium, Anästhesie, Aspirin—Aha! Penicillin!_ He grabbed the bottle and stuffed it into his pocket. _We shouldn't need a syringe. I think Wilson has plenty._

He turned to go, but then a thought struck him. He pivoted and began searching for a syringe . . . _Just in case,_ he told himself. By the time that he had all he needed, he could hear the pattering of feet in the hallways. He stuffed the medical instrument in his pocket and began to make his exit. If he could escape without garnering much attention, his mission could be marked complete. He would meet up with the colonel at the rendezvous place and head back to the stalag to save Newkirk's life.

 _Don't be suspicious. Don't be suspicious,_ he told himself, fairly strolling down the hallway with a studied air of nonchalance.

"You there!" a voice cried out. _"Herr Doktor_ Carterbaum!"

Carter whirled, a look of panic crossing his face for a fraction of a second. At once, he regained his composure, squashing that feeling of alarm. Before him stood the disagreeable nurse from before. Carter sighed and then huffed, _"Ja?"_ He was quite proud with how he'd managed to make it sound as if he were annoyed by the distraction (which, to some degree, he actually was). _"Was is los, Krankenschwester?"_

She crossed her arms. "Have you seen _Doktor_ Hasselhoff? That bum was supposed to have taken you to see the patient in Room 311, and I was told that he hasn't shown up yet."

Carter shrugged. "I really can't say whether he'll be there soon or not. I was told to finish up a check-up with the patient in 214 while he prepared for something else. I think it might've been a surgery he was getting ready for. Either way, I'm supposed to meet him soon. Would you like me to look for him for you?"

Biting her lip, _Krankenschwester_ Ursula seemed to consider this. Her brows furrowed. After what seemed to Carter to be hours, she lifted her head. _"Nein._ You must take me to him. If you are to see him, _und_ I need to see him, why not join forces? We will find his faster"

Carter felt his smile drop all the way into his stomach. He forcibly grinned, although it was far more of a grimace than anything. There had to be some way out of this. Newkirk had been in bad shape before they left. Any delay might mean— _No,_ Carter told himself, _you_ will _get this to him, and he_ will _get better. . . He has to._

~\\*/~

Colonel Hogan stared at his watch for what felt like the millionth time. Where was Carter? Didn't he realize how important it was for them to get back to the stalag as soon as possible? He grumbled and began to pace once more. Just as he had decided to go back into the hospital to rescue his sergeant, he heard someone approaching. He whipped around, hand closing around the pistol tucked into his waistband, only to see a familiar face smiling at him.

"Colonel! Colonel, are you ready?" Carter grinned.

Hogan could not stifle his sigh of relief. "Let's go, Carter. Maybe on the way back, you can tell me why it took so long to meet up."

Carter's uneasy expression was broken by a wide smile. Immediately, he began to chatter. The colonel suspected the onslaught of words was a result of the young man's nervousness. "Boy, have I got a story for you! So, we were walking down the hallway, the doctor and I—Did you know they were expecting another doctor to start work today? That's why no one suspected a thing when I came into that hospital, wearing the doctor's coat. Anyway, the doctor took me on his rounds, and I got to see the general layout of the place. There was a really cranky nurse. Ha! A cranky _Krankenschwester!_ Y'see, it's 'cause both words start out the same way! That's why it's funny—"

~\\*/~

"—And when she wasn't looking, I ran the other way. I mean, I'm sorry she doesn't know where the doctor was, but Newkirk needs this penicillin way more than that nurse needed my help."

Kinch had never been happier to hear Carter's voice than he was at that moment. While still favouring his injured ankle, Carter jumped to the ground, ignoring the last of the rungs on the ladder. Face lit up with sheer excitement, he dashed over to where Kinch was standing. "We got it! Is he still in the Colonel's room?" He grabbed Kinch's arms enthusiastically.

Caught a bit off guard at the grip, Kinch nodded to affirm Carter's question. Immediately, the blond was racing (or, rather, half-limping in quite an animated fashion) to find Newkirk. The taller man glanced at his superior officer. "He's real bad off, Colonel. I sure hope that penicillin works."

Turning to leave, Hogan shook his head. "Newkirk's stubborn. He just needs a push in the right direction. I assume Wilson's already in the room?" At Kinch's nod, he, too, hurried over to his office.

Kinch followed behind, just barely keeping himself from breaking into a sprint. Despite what he had told LeBeau earlier, he was a bit afraid to hope that Newkirk would make it. After all, the Englishman had been in rather bad shape the last time Kinch had seen him. Still, there had to be a way that he might make it. _The colonel's right. Newkirk's definitely a fighter. He'll get through this._ Shaking his head as if to dispel the darker thoughts of earlier, Kinch made short work of the distance between himself and the room where Newkirk lay.

When he entered, he saw Carter had pulled up the chair beside LeBeau and was leaning over the patient. His face a study in concentration and calm relief, Wilson administered the medicine. After a moment, the man stood and faced Hogan. "Colonel, may I speak with you?"

Colonel Hogan nodded and gestured toward the door.

~\\*/~

Wilson blinked. "The amount of penicillin should be enough. Make sure he always has someone watching him. He will need water and something to keep his strength up. Don't have anyone feed him while he's unconscious, though. After all he's been through, we wouldn't want for him to choke to death." His chuckle withered and died at the lack of amused response. Clearing his throat, the medic continued. "His fever may remain unstable for the next few days. Don't be alarmed. It is normal. However, I'd recommend having someone bathe his face with cold water, like LeBeau was doing before you returned." At length, he cracked a smile. "The penicillin should do the trick. I'm sure you'll have your man back to being his usual charming, crabby self in no time."

At that, the colonel finally grinned. "Thanks. Stick around for a bit, will you? While you watch Newkirk, I'll have LeBeau heat up some soup."

"Don't mind if I do." Wilson strode back into the officer's room. Immediately, he could feel the gaze of three men staring at him. He set his face and promptly ignored them in favour of walking over to Newkirk and laying a hand on the man's forehead to check the temperature. After a moment, he lifted his head. "As it looks right now, we think Newkirk should recover fully. Just keep trying to lower his fever . . . and keep praying."

Carter's shoulders slumped in what looked like relief. He slouched against the back of his chair and fixed his gaze on his ill friend. Wilson had to strain to hear the words the blond uttered. "Now it's up to you, buddy. You can do it. Come back to us."

~\\*/~

Raising a hand to massage his aching temples, Klink groaned. There had been something in Hogan's face when Hochstetter had voiced his plan to barge into the barracks. Klink had seen a twinge of . . . _Was that fear? No, no, no. Colonel Hogan would have nothing to fear. Oh, who am I kidding? Hochstetter is Gestapo._ Of course _Hogan would fear him._ But was that it? Had Hogan merely been scared because of the Gestapo? Surely that couldn't be the whole story. The feisty American had faced down Hochstetter even while violently ill. He had guts, too much for him to show any fear to Hochstetter.

Then what could it be? Klink shuddered. He had no desire to entertain the thought that the colonel, a mere prisoner of war, could have something devious up his sleeve. But, as much as the German was loathe to admit it, Hogan was fiendishly clever. Perhaps . . . perhaps a little investigating was in order.

But if he should choose to ask around and then found out that the American officer were, in fact, hiding something, Klink would be obligated to turn in the man to powers higher than he. Maybe he should leave well enough alone. With a hesitant nod, the Kommandant decided upon his actions. He would scrutinize every interaction with the colonel and see if anything were amiss. If not, well, maybe Hogan had been having a bad day and hadn't wanted the Gestapo to see his office rather disorganized. Klink poured a glass of _schnapps_ and downed it in a gulp, hoping to douse with it the feeling of uneasiness that ate at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there! I am so sorry for not posting in, like, ever. Life's been awfully busy. Random good news that I'm too excited not to share: we've set a wedding date! :D (I should clarify that that's not what held me up in posting this.)
> 
> But that's beside the point. :3 I do so hope you enjoy this story! I'll try to have another chapter up soon. The plan is to resume my previous updating goal of at least once a week. . . In the meantime, enjoy! (As a side note, I didn't forget about the Christmas songs. Life just got in the way. I still do plan to at some point post the three more I was working on. :3)
> 
> Soli Deo gloria!
> 
> ~LHDD


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